TRANSLATIONS
by Sacred Geometry
Summary: When Stanford foreign languages student Ellawyn Ellis gets the call that her beloved grandfather Henry is ill, she races home to New York from her planned summer abroad in China to take care of him. What she doesn't plan on is meeting Vince, who has secret plans of his own. Together, Vince and Ellawyn will start the motion of cycles repeating and pain and loss being healed.
1. Chapter 1

**Prelude…**_**Together**_

This was so beyond ridiculous, but I couldn't stop watching. I could not make myself walk away.

I first saw them walking hand in hand into the Woodlands Cemetery just southwest of the campus when I was meant to be heading toward the library to get all my considerable work done before the weekend. The older woman, the one with blond hair streaked in silver, was all in white—white shirt and white jeans, but for a brown leather bag slung across her shoulders. The younger one was a teenager, I think, maybe sixteen or so, carrying a picnic basket, light brown hair cascading down her back, all long arms and coltish legs stretching out from her white dress embroidered with flowers, pale pink Converse sneakers and matching sweater tied around her waist. They both carried an armload of flowers—the girl's bursting out of the basket lid. It wasn't just that they seemed to exist apart from everyone else I passed on these Philadelphia streets, or that they embodied this spring day, all hope and renewal, or that they seemed to be walking into the cemetery for a picnic, which I found odd. It wasn't even that they were beautiful; I never got close enough to make out their features, although their beauty was beyond apparent. It wasn't any of that on its own.

It was that they carried their own light. It emanated _from_ them, rather than fell _on_ them. It triggered a distant memory, I just didn't know of what.

I couldn't stop myself. Homework, special lecture later this afternoon, papers due next week, heavy schedule this term, the plan to graduate early in two years with a double major, maybe an MBA after that…all forgotten. All inconsequential to this moment. To these two women.

I followed them. Of course I did.

I followed them into the cemetery as they visited particular graves to lay down their flowers—maybe not a picnic then?—one of the few times they unclasped their hands from each other, both so radiant and alive in this old resting place of the dead. I didn't see the names on the graves they visited because I was afraid to get too close. I didn't want to disturb their space; I didn't want to defile their light. There was one moment when the girl seemed to sense someone—me—watching. I could swear I saw, or maybe _felt _her shiver before she looked around, toward where I was standing behind a weathered statue of an angel. I went as still as it, the stone wings shielding me from view.

Before they left the final gravesite, the girl took one of her flowers and fixed it in the older woman's hair with a red ribbon, laughing. Then the older woman did the same to the younger. I found myself smiling while watching them. Mother and daughter? No. Grandmother and granddaughter seems more likely. Either way, their love and comfort with each other was palpable.

I followed them as they strolled from Woodlands through the Bio Pond, again staying a good ways back. They stopped a few times to exclaim over an azalea bush in bloom, a turtle, a frog, maybe, I don't know.

It wasn't until they stood in front of the metal peace sign sculpture just outside the library I should be in—should've been in for the last couple hours instead of following them—that I even remembered I had my great-uncle's old Leica camera in my backpack, next to the lap top I should be pounding away on right now. I scrambled it out and set it up quickly. I had but a handful of pictures left in the film and no backup with me, but I got a perfect shot of them from the back with the peace sign between them before they turned to parade further into the college green.

They stopped on a stretch of grass and the girl pulled a flowered quilt from the basket. They spread it out together, smoothing the folds and wrinkles out. The woman took out something small from her leather bag, but I was too far away to see what it was. I moved in a periphery around them, looking for the best shots as they sat back to back, propping each other up, brighter than the sunshine that surrounded them. I sat cloistered in some trees, unable to look away. I put down my camera and just watched. Time was no more.

I felt a presence on my right, someone watching _me. _I tore my eyes away from the two women to see the man who will be teaching the special workshop I'm set to attend later this afternoon, my fourth one of his since I started at Penn two years ago. He's not really a professor, or even part of this college, but is brought in for lectures and seminars on a variety of subjects here and at other universities around the country. Admittedly, his events are oddly-themed, very singular, sponsored by disparate departments—psychology, business, international relations, political science, sociology, African studies, foreign languages, anthropology. I'd looked him up on the internet once and couldn't find much on his five decades as a diplomat and translator. My guess is both that he remained low key and behind-the-scenes during his career, and that it mostly took place in the days before the internet. But I had found that now, in retirement, he was a popular draw at all of his college stops. It was always standing room only, with waiting lists, faculty and students of all years clamoring for a spot. The events are certainly different than anything I've ever experienced, but I left each one seeing some aspect of the world from a slightly different point of view—elevated somehow, expanded. I'd gotten friendly with him by staying over after each event, waiting out everyone else to talk to him. He seemed to take a liking to me. He invited me out to the gatherings held at local restaurants or bars that always followed his events. I've never been a particularly effusive or social person; that was the milieu of my closest friend and roommate, but I always said yes to any invitation he extended, even opened up to him a little. As much as I was able. Mostly, though, in those big groups he included me in, I watched and listened. This man, though, for reasons unbeknownst to me, seemed to find me as fascinating as I found him. In his case, the fascination was warranted. The stories he told, and the wisdom and understanding that had evolved out of his experiences were so grounded in insight and intelligence as to be practically insane.

In my case, the seeming interest he had in me was inexplicable. I'm a teenage college student from the wrong side of the proverbial tracks of a small Massachusetts town who got himself to Penn through one grand stroke of luck and sheer will. But this teacher always included me in the conversations and made a special point to ask about my life. He even extended our time together the last time he was here by inviting me for a late night coffee after the restaurant stop—just him and me. In all of his interactions, with me or with the others, he seemed to see right through you, right to your soul. It was kind of disconcerting.

I'd come to think of this man as the wisest person I knew.

And right now, he was leaning against a tree, smiling down at me.

He didn't speak immediately, just smiled benevolently. Finally, he broke the silence. "You might be wearing the most dichotomous expression that ever was. Or maybe mutable or mercurial is more apt. Either way, it's enchanting. One moment you look forlorn, the next wondrous, followed by peaceful, and then awestruck. Pray tell this old man why there seems to be a kaleidoscope of emotions playing across your young face."

I smiled to myself because, once again, this teacher seemed to see beyond the mask I usually wore, or maybe it's just that these two women had somehow ripped it away. I waited a beat, deciding whether to share the vision on the grass with him—I'm not even sure I would reveal this to my best friend, were he here. But this wise man might've been the only person in the world I would share this with. I think he would understand. Before I could reply though, amidst creaking bones and much huffing, he sat down next to me, facing out from the trees toward that patch of grass on the green.

"Ahh…" he said. "I do believe I can now fathom your vacillating countenance."

My eyes followed his, back toward the two women on the blanket. In the few moments we'd been talking, the girl was now lying down with her head in the lap of the older. I felt almost bereft that in turning away to talk to my favorite teacher, I missed some interaction of theirs, some movement. Some shifting play of their light.

I opened up to him. "I've been meditating on this sight…sort of…mesmerized, I guess. Wondering why it's so peaceful. I…I just can't seem to stop myself." We watched. "Have you ever seen such pure beauty? Such presence?"

He was quiet for a long time before answering. "By all rights, paintings should be painted of them, all bright dappled sunlight and flowers. Epic poetry and sonnets should be written. Harps and lyres played by cherubs."

I glanced over at him to see he was serious. His face looked like how he described mine—all mutable expressions. He understood.

More quiet.

I broke the silence this time. "I've been imagining what it would be like to just walk up to them. What it might feel like to see their faces alight and welcoming. To sit down on that blanket with them. Be included somehow in the…in the _light_ that's surrounding them."

"There is no time like the present!" he exclaimed. "I'll try if you will." He made it sound like a dare. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn toward me. "Come on, let's go talk to them! I'll even take the lead. This old man still has some game left in him." I smiled, but shook my head. "Oh, come now, what is life if not risk? Besides, from what I've seen and heard, you're not known for being shy with the ladies."

Now he was joking and I was almost embarrassed, wondering just what he'd seen and heard. But he seemed kind-hearted about it, not mocking. Well…not really. "But they're different aren't they, these two? Somehow? I wouldn't dream of actually approaching them." Hopefully, he hadn't noticed the warmth that crept up my cheeks.

"But you just said you have dreamt of it, haven't you? You have imagined it." He chuckled before adding, "You're blushing." Did he not miss anything?

"No I'm not. It's just this clear spring sun on my fair Norse skin," I deadpan.

"No one who isn't blind would ever call your coloring _fair_, dear boy, and you've told me before you're of Cape Verdean descent and only part Norse. A small part, I think." I shot him a look, trying to hide my smile. "But if that's the story we're going with, then yes, this bright sunlight is indeed overwhelming your very tender skin. Of course it is." He was definitely mocking then—his eyes were practically sparkling—but I didn't mind in the least. We sat in silence again, watching.

"It's impossible to say which of these two is the more beautiful, isn't it? The older or the younger," I said.

"But that's not the point, is it."

"No it's not at all. It's something…I don't know…Something…_other._"

"Yes. You are quite right. But I believe I know what it is." He paused. "It's what they are together." He had put into perfect words the vague concept my mind hadn't wholly coalesced. _It's what they are together._ "And if I didn't have to lead this workshop in half an hour, I would be quite content to stay right here with you to drink in this beauty for the rest of eternity. I've seen very few people who are quite so radiant and…shiny." He was looking at me now, not the women on the grass. "It's heartening to see a young man who understands that kind of love."

_It's what they are together._

I whipped my head toward him, but I didn't see him. My eyes had gone murky. Somehow, at these last words, something buried deep in my psyche shifted, revealing something I couldn't quite make out, and I felt adrift. Sick, even. Waves of darkness crashed down on me, engulfed me. I was sinking. I couldn't breathe. Time stopped and started again. Wavered. Gulping air, I sought anything to grasp onto to pull me out of the dimness. I found something familiar—anger.

The man was now standing, looking at me, but this time in alarm. I didn't see him get up. "What?" I didn't care that it came out snappish.

"I think you…uh…lost some time there. You seemed to…_drift_ for a moment."

I practically glared at him, even knowing he was not the source of my enmity; I wasn't sure what was.

"What might I do to help?" The kindness on his face was too much. I felt exposed.

I didn't answer him immediately, but instead raked my eyes across my watch. Merda! It's after four-thirty already. I'd wasted the entire day. Wasted. That anger turned inward and suddenly I was furious with myself. I was not _that _guy! Not the frivolous guy to get mesmerized and _smiley, _for god's sakes, at white dresses, and wicker baskets with flowers, and legs with pink tennis shoes and…all damn day! It had only seemed like minutes but it was all damn day I wasted on this foolishness. On them. I hadn't felt so undisciplined in a long time. I usually had more control.

"Nothing!" I barked out. "I just realized I've wasted my entire day and I've got…work to do." I wished he would stop looking at me with that discerning stare of his.

"Hmm…" He paused for a long moment. "I'm truly sorry that I must leave now to prepare for this lecture, rather than staying to perhaps puzzle out this distressing transformation in you." I wouldn't look at him. "But let me extend an invitation to you. My family and I are attending a reception tomorrow night at the Japanese tea house up the way. It's sort of a last remnant of the cherry blossom festival that just ended. Why don't you join us?"

I had to admit that I'd wondered what his wife was like, what his family was like. I knew he was married—he wore a wedding ring—but he spent so much time asking about your life, that he didn't end up talking much about his own. But right now I just couldn't think about that, I just wanted him gone.

"I'm not really a tea house and flowers kind of guy," I smirked. "But thank you anyway."

"What kind of _guy_ are you?" He was completely serious.

"One who is going to be master of the universe," I replied, challengingly. "One who is going to rule the world." Not one who practically stalked two strangers because of their _light, _for god sakes!

"Myself, I wouldn't care to rule any world that doesn't have flowers in it." He nodded toward the women. "That doesn't have beauty in it."

_Well, that's you and not me, _I wanted to say, but didn't.

"If you change your mind, it's tomorrow at seven at the Shofuso Tea House. I'll leave your name at the door just in case."

I should've said _don't bother_. But even if I was inclined to, I couldn't have told him what I already had planned for tomorrow night. He was a peaceful man—his whole life seemed dedicated to it—he wouldn't approve. He was watching me again.

"Don't be late to the lecture," he said before turning to walk away. I didn't even care that he seemed a little sad—resigned, even.

I started to get up myself, before I realized there was no point now, so I stayed seated. By the time I would've gotten to the library to do the work I should've done this whole day, I'd just have to turn around and leave to get to the lecture.

"Merda! Merda, merda, merda!" I uttered under my breath.

Instead I turned back toward the two women. The older one seemed to be taking some photos of the scenery with a camera—that must've been what she'd gotten out of her bag earlier. She put it away and pulled out a phone, answering it. After a minute, she ended the call and said something to the girl. They laughed and began gathering their things.

I followed them, once again. Why the hell not, I told myself; it wasn't as if I could accomplish anything else before the lecture anyway. It wasn't because looking at them dissipated this too familiar black anger or anything. It wasn't because I almost longed for, craved even, their…their…something _other..._Not at all. A glance at my camera showed I had two photos left on my film. Might as well finish the roll.

I ended up only getting one more shot of the two women as they walked hand in hand through the college green, a different way than they'd come. I was nearer than I'd been to them before. One of them dropped something and I jogged closer to pick it up. I was kneeling to scoop up the flower and the red ribbon used to affix it to one or the other of their hair—I couldn't tell which one—when I saw the girl shiver again and I knew, I just _knew_ she was going to turn around. She did, but not before I lifted the camera in front of my face and snapped a picture. I stood and immediately veered off on another path after that because I didn't want to alarm her. It was bad enough that I followed them half the day.

I contemplated skipping the afternoon workshop to make up for the wasted day, but writing a paper on it would garner me extra credit in my international business class. Instead, I came in a few minutes late, something that I didn't normally do. Ever. This teacher almost seemed to be waiting for me. When he saw me enter the packed amphitheater room, he waved me to a reserved seat near the front. I had planned on standing in the back.

"Let us begin," he told the whole room through his lectern microphone. The crowd instantly quieted.

He briefly and humbly introduced himself. He had mentioned to me previously why he did that. He'd said that he got too big of a head if he let someone from the college introduce him. The inevitable veneration bothered him and put too much of a separation between the audience and himself.

Then, "Just a short time ago, I was inspired to change, to _adjust _today's theme. Only a little. It's still in keeping with our stated title, 'Forging Connections: Getting To The Core Of What They Want In Negotiations.' Rather a wordy theme, but as those who've come to know me will understand, I do love my words!" The simpering crowd tittered at this, but not me; I was not in the mood. "But how can you understand what _they _want—they, being your foreign diplomats, your potential business partners, your employees, your trade unions, your investors, your local regulatory authorities, your tribal leaders, your CEO's, whomever—if you don't know what _you _want. Who _you _are."

I went stock still in my seat.

"So…if it's okay with the department chair who has kindly sponsored this event, we're going to focus on this instead. Before we start on the exercises I will assign—because you know there are always exercises in my workshops…" He put his hand on a stack of papers as the crowd laughed. "…Luckily, these handouts will still suffice…I will tell you a story of mine to illustrate this concept. This was a negotiation early in my State Department career where I buried the best part of myself and instead operated under a much lesser aspect. In order to cover up what I perceived to be a weakness in myself, I put on a sort of cloak, a mask, if you will. Therefore, I could not see past it to be able to engage the best part of the people sitting at the table opposite me. I did not know the core of myself, so I could not possibly begin to know the core of anyone else. Need I tell you that it was all an epic fail?" More laughter.

"This perceived weakness was in fact my greatest strength, but it took me years to fully comprehend that. I do not wish that lapse for you. The world is changing fast, accelerating, and you young people no longer have the option, the _luxury_, to spend time dilly-dallying as did I—mired in silly and pointless endeavors such as shoring up your defenses, cloaking yourselves in something less than you are at your very core. And _that_ is precisely why I am here speaking with you today. As I said, I do not wish that for you.

"Now let me find that department chair." He scanned the crowd, his eyes resting on someone near the top back of the room. "Do I have your okay?" After a moment, he smiled and made a gesture between a nod and a bow. He said something in a foreign language that I certainly didn't know, but this teacher spoke an untold number of them. When anyone asked him, as I'd done before, he laughingly claimed not to know the actual count. What he'd said sounded something like, "_Hoowa mocktoob._"

"So, let's start where we are." He now fixed his hawkish stare on me. "Our new, adjusted theme will be…_Know Thyself._"

The very last photo taken from my roll of film was at a bar that night, of a dozen or so students and faculty sitting at a table with the teacher at the center. Later, I sent that photo to this teacher. Tracking down his address was no easy feat either. Apparently he was doing an entire summer series at Stanford, so I sent it care of one of the sponsoring department chairs. I don't know if he even got it, I didn't include a card or anything with it, just the photo in a plain frame.

I'm not altogether sure why I did it.

Possibly I sent it because he sought me out after the workshop, insisting I accompany him to the bar afterwards and sit opposite him at the table. I gave my camera to the waitress to take the shot. Right before I went home with her. I was still, I think, trying to prove that I was _not _that guy. A pointless endeavor, one of many in my life.

Maybe I sent it because, in the bar photo, he seemed to exude his own light, much like those women. And that light seemed as if it was spilling out onto me. It was a beautiful effect, even though it was probably just a vagary of that old vintage camera.  
I did see this teacher again the following year, when he held another seminar at Penn. It did not end well. After the lecture, another undergrad—a jackass I knew from around campus—"let slip" to him exactly what I did to fund my time here at school. The teacher waited for me outside the restaurant as I was heading in to join the post-lecture gathering and confronted me about my extra-curricular activities. I ended up yelling at him before stalking away.

Before it all went to hell, though, before the gossiping jackass, I was so excited that this man had come back to campus. I couldn't wait to share with him some things that he might appreciate. That he might understand. Mostly, I guess, I wanted to thank him in person for his impact on me; tell him I understood what he'd been trying to convey. But I never got the chance.

Later that night, after I'd yelled at this wise old man, I was stalking through the city, angry at my childish behavior. Before I could come up with a way to fix it all, I happened upon that jackass outside a different bar. I punched him right in the face. Broke his nose.

The following day, I started preparing a second photo from that original roll of film to send to this teacher. I ordered one of them to be enlarged into an 8x10. It was of the two women standing in front of the peace sign outside the library. The frame I had specially made by an elderly craftsman in town. It had hand carved flowers on its wood frame. Cherry blossoms. The card I got also featured cherry blossoms. In it I wrote, "It's what they are together. -To one shared moment of peace on May 2, 2008." That date was the day the photo was taken, the day of his workshop nearly a year ago. I had to look it up to make sure I got it right.

That peace photo and that card were a stand-in for all the things I wanted to tell that wise old man, when he came back, but never did. I was foolishly and childishly hurt that the teacher admonished me. I think the last words I said to him were, "You don't know everything old man." Something ridiculous like that. So, yeah, it was an apology, too.

But the funny thing was, even after all my careful preparations—the handcrafted frame, the perfect pink matting, the card—I never sent it. I got distracted by what came in the weeks after punching that other student. It changed everything and I never sent it.

I think back on all that now…What is it?...Three years after I last saw that wise old teacher and punched the student? Four years after the date I wrote on that card?...as I pack up my room in the apartment I've shared with my best friend for nearly all our college years. We will both graduate soon and are moving to New York to start our plans in motion.

I'm almost grateful to the jackass now—the jackass that I will be seeing a lot more of in the coming months—for mouthing off. I certainly don't regret punching him. He's done a lot worse things since then, when he deserved much more than a punch. I could've gotten expelled for that, putting a stop to everything I'd worked so hard for. Luckily, he ended up dropping all charges, even claiming he was mistaken and it wasn't me who hit him. His two idiot friends did the same.

Mostly I don't regret it because that whole incident ultimately unveiled a huge revelation of its own; one that set me on this altered course, an accelerated course. It even, conversely, ended up securing me another full scholarship to go on and complete my MBA, as well as a job that's waiting for me in New York. This revelation was unrelated to anything to do with that teacher, but still could fall under the heading of _Know Thyself_, or even _Cycles Repeating—_the main theme of his last lecture.

I pull out the brown parcel containing the enlarged peace photo from the closet where it's stayed all this time. I've never opened it. It's still ready to mail, but for want of an address on the outside. I carefully place it in one of the moving boxes.

I never saw my favorite teacher again; as far as I know he never came back to this university. I wonder sometimes if he even remembers me. Now, if I were to talk to him, I might just tell him that I've grown up and have more discipline and control. I would never dream of sharing all those breathless realizations with him that I'd planned to, with _anyone, _really. Not anymore. I did tell my friend a piece of it. Enough for him to agree to alter our plans. I will need to step very carefully now, keep everything inside—close to the vest, as the saying goes.

That said, I will always be grateful to him for a realization he brought about in me. It had started with his words on the campus green that day. _It's what they are together. _Then, during those insightful written exercises he had us do in that _Know Thyself_ workshop, I understood a little more of what he had been trying to say. But it was only after I got those photos developed that I fully realized. I knew who those women reminded me of and why I followed them. They reminded me of someone from my childhood who embodied the best part of me, who seemed to emanate light, too, like they did, like the teacher did, and it spilled onto me. _It's what we were together._ I understood. That's what I'd wanted to tell my wise old friend, but I know I never would now, even if I got the chance.

But, no matter…I shake off the memories. That part of me is dead and gone. It's the past and I'm focused on the future. Nothing or no one could stop me from the course I've plotted. It's full-steam ahead. Yes, I do plan on being master of the universe—ruling the world. A world in which I will need to keep any lingering remnants of the best part of me tucked tightly away. But at least I know what it is now because of that teacher. Or what it _was_.

From the nightstand, I pull out that envelope of photos taken in the heart of The City of Brotherly Love, ironically, and quickly rifle through them to find my favorite. Over these last years, I would take it out from time to time just to stare at it when I've been reminded of what I've lost; when the darkness washes ashore and I feel like I could drown in it. This picture is like air and sunlight to me. Beauty and flowers. I'd never show it to anyone—it is mine only.

But it's time to put down childish things.

I place the envelope of photos, along with the ribbon and faded flower in the moving box on top of the brown parcel and pad it all with an old Penn sweatshirt. Then I tape the box firmly shut.

Later that night, the last night I will spend in this apartment, after everything is packed up and ready to go, I shut my eyes and can perfectly envision my favorite picture, now packed away. It's the final one I took of the two women, right before I picked up the flower and ribbon. Right before I veered off on another path.

It's a bit blurry—almost like an Impressionist painting—either because I took it hurriedly when the girl turned around or it's just a vagary of that old camera. That campus Love sculpture is in the shot as they walk past it. Surrounding the sculpture are pink cherry blossom trees. The trees seem to be raining their petals on the two women. And it's probably just my imagination, since I can't even make out her features, but the girl's expression seems as if it is filled with wonder.


	2. Chapter 2

_**1…Oceans Apart**_

My eyes wrench open at a loud sound and cannot place what they're seeing. There is a grey cloth pouch in front of me, with papers sticking out of it. A magazine. I am lying down, my jacket and hands curled up as a kind of pillow under my head. I jerk up to a sitting position.

A plane.

Grandfather!

The armrest between my ex-neighbor _shunu_'s seat and mine is up. I don't even remember moving it, or stretching across both seats. How long have I been asleep?

Did the captain make an announcement? Is that the sound I heard? Are we getting ready to land? Oh, please, yes!

I quickly wrench up the window shade to see a burgeoning dawn—the barest hint of light shining over the Pacific. But nothing else.

Nothing but ocean.

I stay staring out at it anyway, my eyes drinking in the vast expanse, because it helps dissipate the lingering claustrophobia from the dream I don't remember. All I have left of it are vague visions of monkeys.

I start rocking back and forth again. I certainly wouldn't want to be sitting next to me in this cramped coach row on this long flight from Shanghai. It was my absolute inability to sit still that caused all my prior seat neighbors to demand to be moved to another row on the flights I've been on so far. All three of them were Chinese matrons and each stomped off to complain, loudly—one even before the plane took off—after first sending a series of slurs and barbed looks of scathing disapproval my way.

If I had any possible hope of being comforted, strangely, a Chinese Tiger Mother death-ray stare might've done it. I've gotten more than my fair share of those scorching looks from my favorite Chinese professor-slash-unofficial program advisor at Stanford when I didn't get my pronunciation or kanji right and I'd come to find these looks as an expression of a kind of love, albeit of the tough variety.

Mostly, though, I get those stares when I, as Professor Zhang-Lei calls it, "creatively translate."

"_Ellawyn Ellis! You must stop making the words and meanings kinder and gentler than they are! Than they should be!"_ she has admonished me numerous times. _"You must translate exactly!" _

I didn't really know I was doing that—making meanings nicer—and would shrug at her, earning another stern look. I've come to understand that she is not at all fond of American shrugs as she would mutter disgustedly, _"Qingshaonian!" _

Loosely translated—okay, maybe she was right—that means _teenager, _although, _ridiculous juvenile adolescent _could also work. I'm not really sure she even likes me, but she's an amazing teacher and I'm happy to have her. What each row mate said to me would certainly earn me Tiger Mother disapproval if I said it in front of Professor Zhang-Lei; _white devil, American banshee, _but the only one I was really bothered by was the last one, even though it was hardly the worst.

_Ai xiao de houzi. _ Little monkey.

Throughout my almost twenty years on this planet, most of it spent in one far-flung foreign land or another, I've had more fun than I care to admit listening to people talking about me in their own language, thinking I don't understand: no one ever believes an American speaks anything other than English. I would then say something in their tongue to let them know that I knew what they'd said. I'd like to think that I did this to shift and elevate American stereotypes, but in reality, it's a smart-aleck part of me that enjoys their shock. I have shared many laughing moments playing this snarky game with my beloved grandfather, Henry, a master wiseass and translator who knows something like nineteen languages.

I contemplated doing just that with each of my Chinese _shunu_ _mei hao de _(_nice ladies_—perhaps a creative translation?) but they would surely _want _me to know what they said. Besides, I feel guilty enough for being so irritating and anyway there is no real joy to be had in these endless hours since I got the call from my best friend, Emory, that my grandfather has had a stroke. Short of seeing him.

Alive.

I leave the window shade up and hazard a glance at the sleeping older man—whom I've tentatively identified as Mediterranean—in the aisle seat. Somehow he had slept through all the earlier drama but is awake now and looking at me, alarmed…Oh no, not him, too! I don't think I can take another harsh neighbor.

His eyes are kind, though, concerned even. I find that this is worse than all the other Chinese invective hurled at me earlier, and I turn away, back to the window. I stop rocking and start jiggling my leg instead.

"Nightmare?" he asks, gently.

I shrug, keeping my gaze out the window and get a brief flash of a twisting jungle road from my dream before shaking it off. It occurs to me that quite possibly the sound that woke me, was me, crying out in my sleep.

And another realization: he didn't say this in English, but in Arabic, a language I know a bit of from our time spent in North Africa when I was a kid, but mostly from Grandfather's patient ministrations. He makes me practice with him, although I've never taken a course in it.

What the man actually said was, "_Jatum_?"

I turn to him, meeting his eyes, again the kindness unsettles me and I switch to rocking back and forth in my seat, seared by his concern.

"_Anti booheyer, tufula_?" He's asking if I'm alright.

I still my rocking to concentrate. I don't even know why I'm choosing to answer him, maybe it's because of the mercy in his eyes or that he asked in one of Grandfather's favorite languages. Or just that he's not screaming at me.

"Jidee." I reply, slowly searching for the Arabic words. "Mooreed. Moose ta sha fa."

_Grandfather. Sick. Hospital._

This man smiles first in something akin to delight—possibly at my Arabic?—then nods sympathetically.

I point to myself, saying one last phrase in his language.

"Anaa khaa ifa."

_Scared_.

His benevolent smile in reply might be my undoing. I feel a caustic burning in my throat. Scared doesn't really describe how I'm feeling, but I cannot think of the Arabic words for _terrified _right now. Or _guilt-ridden. _Or, _He's the only family I have left and my absolute favorite person in the world and I cannot bear to lose anyone else I love._

I quickly turn back to the window to look out at the ocean. I've held it together this long, barely, and don't want to lose it now. I still have many miles to go.

"Allah yoofithook," he says quietly, reverently—_May God be with you_—but I don't turn around to him. I can't. Instead, I start rocking in my seat again, the increased movement helping to ease the flames in my throat.

I distract myself by wondering what he was doing in China; where he visited, who he visited. Does he have family there? Or maybe he lives there. Was it vacation? Business?

When Emory called yesterday morning to tell me about my grandfather's stroke, I was in the city of Wuhan in central China, staying with a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Song, who own two small factories—small by Chinese standards, at least.

Prior to that, I had been trekking in China for barely two weeks, leaving directly after finishing the winter quarter at school—only my third quarter of official Chinese studies. After a short foray to the desert northwest of the capital, I made my way down from Beijing with a stop to see the Mengshan Buddha statue, through Zengzhou, and Xinyang, sometimes meeting up with other Chinese language students from various universities along the way who were scheduled to be in the same Chinese class with me at Peking University starting at the end of July. We would set up to meet via email.

I was to stay with this family until my immersion class started, teaching English to them, their son, their workers at the factory, and also the children of some of the workers. I was something like the eighth American student to do this and absolutely loved this family and this job. I'd found that the factory and its conditions were not at all what I'd expected. The employees were genuinely cared for by The Songs—there were no twenty-hour workdays and it was clean and safe and seemed to be a healthy environment. I don't yet know if this is an anomaly and I just lucked out in going to work for this particular factory and this particular family, or if this is more the norm than what we read about in America.

Professor Zhang-Lei had set up this job for me as well as gave me a sort of informal early acceptance to the summer program after acing a special placement test she had me take to prove I was ready.

I find that I can learn a language so much quicker—almost immediately—if I immerse myself in it by being in its origin country. I spent a long quarter in Japan a year or so ago, accelerating those language skills and I've come a long way in the Mandarin language in my few weeks of being in China; I'm sure I've learned more by teaching English in Wuhan than I've taught. By the end of the summer, I should be able to jump ahead in my studies, maybe bypassing some of the Chinese courses toward my dual Asian languages degree. That is, if I pass muster with Professor Zhang-Lei, which I've come to know is never a given.

I feel guilty for all the work Professor Zhang-Lei put into getting me accepted, guilty to be leaving the Songs so soon after arriving and after bonding so well with their son.

After Em's call, I got on the phone immediately in an absolute panic to book a flight, while simultaneously looking for flights on the internet on my laptop. There were so many choices to make in how to get to New York, but I settled on the one that left Wuhan the soonest even though it meant plane changes in Shanghai and then San Francisco. I just knew I'd go crazy if I didn't start moving as soon as possible.

After I booked it all, I threw everything in my bag, said a hurried goodbye to my Chinese hosts who arranged for a car to the airport. I was out of their house within thirty minutes.

I regret heartily that I did not get to say goodbye to the Song's twelve-year-old son, an amazing kid that I nicknamed Dragon because he was born in the auspicious Chinese Year of the Dragon—the most powerful Chinese astrological sign—a fact that his parents were very proud of. That, and also with this nickname, his full name became Dragon Song, which, come on…that's just too lovely to pass up. At least that's what it would be if you said it in the Western way; in China, you generally don't use someone's given name, only their last name.

I caught the nicknaming bug from Grandfather Henry. It is a great sign of respect and affection from him to give someone a nickname. And actually, now that I think about it further, it's also a sign of great annoyance—he's given nicknames to people he wasn't fond of at all, but those were of the not-so-nice variety.

There is a man I've never met who worked in the State Department with Granddad for years whom he has only referred to as Snotty Pinchface. His wife is Snooty Pinchface. It always used to make my late Grandmother laugh and say scandalized, "Henry! That is not kind. What kind of example are we giving to our granddaughter?" I remember she whispered to me one time that Mr. and Mrs. Pinchface were the perfect names for this co-worker of Henry's and his wife and that she was always afraid she was going to say it out loud to them when they were forced to spend time together. I've never even heard their real names.

It was with the deepest affection that I gave smart, funny, energetic, impatient, inquisitive and sometimes pain-in-the-arse, Dragon his nickname, though. Henry would love him if they ever were to meet. Dragon was gone to a friend's house an hour away and there was no way I could wait for him to get back home before heading to the Wuhan airport. Another wave of guilt washes over me in not saying goodbye to him before I left, especially because right now I don't know if I'll ever be back. I know he'll be hurt, or is already, but I have to put that aside for now. I'll email him later.

But the worst guilt that is eating me alive is that I didn't go see Henry in New York first, but flew directly to China to begin my spring and summer there. I've not seen Henry since he came to visit me in Palo Alto in February. He stayed with Emory and me in the townhouse for a week, attending a series of special events that are a great part of being at Stanford.

Three of those events were lectures put on by the African Studies department. He knew all of the speakers for those lectures including a daughter of a late Nobel Peace prize winner from Kenya. Henry and I joined this lecturer and some professors for a four-hour dinner after the lecture at the home of one of the department chairs who sponsored this lecture series. I watched with warmth and pride as Henry reminisced with the visiting Africans about old times, State Department policy, new visions of a changing continent, and friends they had in common.

That was Henry in his element, at his finest. He's been a guest lecturer at Stanford, too, including a whole summer series when I first started there.

Just like every other time he's visited me at school, we were invited to breakfasts, lunches, dinners and drinks the whole time Henry was in Palo Alto. I've been at Stanford for four years and without doubt he knows more people there than I do. But then again, I'm pretty sure he could be in the deepest reaches of the Amazon and find someone he knew, or someone to connect with at least.

I was not scheduled to see him again until the beginning of September, after the Chinese language summer program was over and before the fall quarter was to begin. It does nothing to alleviate the guilt that he urged me to go, almost insisted on it.

He paid for the flight to Beijing saying, "There's no point coming to New York first. You're already almost halfway to China if you fly from there. I'll see you in a few short months and I'll have a surprise waiting for you."

We argued about it just long enough for me to capitulate when he brought up that it would waste money. He knows where to push my buttons. I felt guilty enough already that he was paying for the part of school that wasn't covered by my scholarships—like expensive plane flights—as I just kept banking my paychecks from the various jobs I've always had while at Stanford. Several of which have been teaching foreign languages to internet zillionaire's kids. I've amassed a sizable savings account for a college student and, rather than proud, right now I just feel guilty about it.

Henry's only condition for China was that I got a new international smartphone that he could track from his computer and that we keep to our regular emails and scheduled Sunday catch-up phone calls. We just adjusted the time on Sunday to make up for the 13-hour time difference. We do it now for him on Saturday night when he gets home from whatever party, dinner, or speaking engagement he is out at that night. For me, it is late Sunday morning in Wuhan.

I'd only had to cancel one when I was traveling and staying in a yurt with three other students in what could barely be called a village at the edge of the Gobi desert. I knew before going there that I wouldn't have a cell signal and had emailed him in advance to cancel.

He'd only had to cancel one, too, and that was our one scheduled for last Sunday. He'd texted me to say he was super busy and could we reschedule for next week. I was waiting for his call this Sunday morning—yesterday—when Emory called instead to say that he'd had a stroke. Then, terror had set in.

It is only now I realize that I didn't get any details from Em, other than he was recovering—I don't even know what hospital he's in or when, precisely, he had the stroke. I was too much in shock. I don't think about it further, because the captain is announcing we're getting close to San Francisco and it's now time to stow your things and put your seat backs up, blah, blah, blah.

_Yes! _Finally! Only one more flight to go!

I quickly buckle up and sit still facing front. Well, for about five seconds I sit still before I notice my leg jiggling again. I stop it only to start rocking back and forth, this time with a new whispered mantra, _"Come on, come on, come on, come on, comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon!"_ I keep this up until I feel the plane touch down and we taxi all the way to the gate.

If any of my _shunu_ ladies were still sitting next to me, I'm sure they would've scratched my eyes out by now, but I can't stop. We're almost there!

When I hear that _bell _sound that means it's okay to stand up, I shoot out of my seat in a millisecond, even though I can't really stand up all the way, being under the bulkhead. Thank heavens this row is only two back from the exit door. I lean down to grab the messenger bag with my computer and basics in it from under the seat in front of me as my nice Mediterranean neighbor stands up quickly and moves just behind our row in the aisle, leaving room for me to scoot in front of him.

"_Shukran jazilan_," I mutter in thanks.

"_Allah yoofithook_," he says again, _May God be with you,_ before adding something I can't translate. "_Hoowa mocktoob_."

I repeat it in my mind, trying to commit it to memory as I race down the gangplank. _Hoowa mocktoob. _I can ask Grandfather what it means, providing… Ugh! I can't even think about that.

After customs and immigration, rechecking my bag and getting to the gate for the last leg of my journey, I have nearly two hours to wait. I just missed being able to get on an earlier flight. I know it's time to turn on my phone—the first time since I left Wuhan—but I'm so frightened of what messages might await.

What if?...What if?...What if?

These _what ifs_ can slay a person.

_Please let him be okay! Please! _

I decide to find the restroom first. When I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I see a total wreck of a human—a scared, exhausted one. I splash my face with water and grab a paper towel to dry it. My hazel/blue-green eyes are cloudy and bloodshot with dark circles underneath. My long light brown/dark blonde hair—Emory calls both my hair and eyes "mutable" because they change color either with the seasons or my environment—is pulled back in a ponytail, but it's a tangled mess, with wavy wisps falling out everywhere. I grab a hairbrush from my messenger bag and take a moment to brush out the worst of the snarls and redo the ponytail.

I am procrastinating because really, I could not possibly care any less what my hair looks like. A quick brush of my teeth with my travel tooth brush and I have nothing else to do in here.

I head over to an empty airline gate next to the one for my flight to New York—I want to stay close by.

_What if? What if? What if?_

My hands are shaking as I push the button to turn on my phone. I pace around my gate, holding it away from my body as if I can keep away any bad news that might await me. I feel the dreaded _ping _of messages waiting.

Steeling myself, I take a deep breath and decide to just send Em a text first. I'd emailed her my flight info when I got to the Wuhan airport, knowing she'll coordinate getting me to the hospital when I arrive. I was too scared to turn on my phone during the short Shanghai layover. _What if? What if? What if?_

I type, _ SFO._

An immediate ping from my phone tells me she's replied. _Don't worry. Aunt Bea and I are with Henry right now before I go to work. He's awake and doing fine. See you at LaGuardia soon. Breathe!_

I hold the threatening tears at bay by the skin of my teeth, exhaling loudly. I think I've been holding my breath since turning on my phone. I sink into a seat at the nearly empty gate, but the release does not last long, as a new worry arises. Aunt Bea is practically a shut-in in her apartment. If she's there at the hospital, it must be really bad. But Granddad's alive. He's alive! I grasp tightly to that thought with all my might, the very worst of my fears allayed for the moment.

Before I can reply to Em or look at all the other messages, a new text pings in my inbox. It's from Professor Gardner, my now-ex Japanese mentor. She's known Henry since before I was born.

It reads, _Where are you? Get the hell out here!_

Huh?

I type back to her, _?_

There is an immediate reply. _Didn't you get my voicemail? We're waiting for you in the terminal just outside your New York gate._

Gah!

I look at the screen that lists the voicemails, then hit the button to go directly to the first one from Professor Gardner. It was left yesterday…"Elle, I'm sorry to hear that Henry is ill and I know you're flying in from China to be with him. I got your flight schedule and will meet you at the San Francisco airport at the exit closest to your gate to New York when you land. Come out to meet us as we can't come in to you because of security, obviously. We have some stuff to give you. See you tomorrow morning!"

What!? She's here? At the airport? And with whom? Must be her husband, also a professor, but in African Studies.

I listen to her next message, probably left while I was in the restroom procrastinating. "We know your flight got in more than 30 minutes ago and we are waiting _very impatiently,_" she emphasizes those words, "at the exit nearest your New York gate. And by the way, we checked and the line to go back through security is really short, so don't worry about that. Where are you?!"

I wonder if the line is still short since she called. I check my watch. I have just over an hour and forty-five minutes, but I'm still scared I'll miss my flight.

But, then again, I'd feel awful if I didn't go meet her, especially if she came all this way. I can't not go out there. I find the exit nearest my gate and feel more than a little trepidation when I pass the sign reminding me I am leaving the secured area and will have to go back through security to reenter. I glance around and spot them standing by a row of chairs on the opposite wall, my mouth dropping open in shock. It's Professor Gardner … with _Professor Zhang-Lei_.

_What the_…

What are they doing here? And _together? _I guess they would know each other as they're both in the East Asian Languages Department, but I didn't know they were _friends. _I've just never thought about it before. They're near the same age, I think…maybe Professor Zhang-Lei is older. I'm just flummoxed. I can't get my mind around them being here.

Being here…_for me. _

I've stayed friendly with Professor Gardner since finishing my Japanese studies, going to her house for dinner occasionally, babysitting her kids when they go out of town, but I've not had any semblance of a relationship with Professor Zhang-Lei, outside of the academic one.

This whole moment has taken on a dream-like quality as I slowly make my way over to the smiling Professor Gardner and the frowning Professor Zhang-Lei. I stop in front of them as Professor Gardner says kindly, "Hello, Ellawyn."

I start to bow to Professor Gardner out of habit, saying, "Gardner-son," but before I can bend more than a few inches, she catches me in a motherly hug and says, "Oh, stop that! I am Kagami today!"

The only thing that keeps me from completely dissolving into a heap on the floor is that I can see Professor Zhang-Lei's face over Gardner-son's shoulder. She's clutching her purse and scowling at me under the huge white visor she's wearing on her head. I've never been so glad to see that look.

She mutters in Mandarin, "You look awful!"

I almost giggle.

Professor Gardner—there is no way I can call her by her first name, Kagami, not even in my mind—pulls away to sit down on the chair behind her, hauling a black embroidered cloth bag from one of the chairs onto her lap. "Listen, I know you don't have very long and Jun-yi needs to get to a lecture on farming in ancient China, but we brought you some things. Have a seat."

_Jun-yi? _

I sit down next to her as Professor Zhang-Lei sits on the other side of her.

Professor Gardner rifles around in the bag, first lifting out a book and a few packages of Japanese candy, showing them to me. "Gift for Henry when he feels better. He always loved this musk melon candy." The book is of bawdy Japanese haiku, right up Henry's alley. The subtitle actually reads, "Bawdy Japanese Haiku."

She taps two envelopes wedged in the book, sticking out of the top, "That's a get well card from Allen and me. And a note for Emory, from Jerry," she smirks. "God knows, it's probably a letter professing his undying love. That kid!" She puts it all back in the bag, shaking her head. "He also sends his regards to Henry, of course."

Jerry is the Gardner's sixteen-year-old son who met Emory the few times I've brought her over to the Gardner's house with me. He follows her around like a puppy, enthralled with her Southern charms and beauty. Emory just takes it in stride as she's used to men of all ages—and heaven knows, women, too—having massive crushes on her, admiring her, wanting to be like her or with her. Or sometimes both at once. It is truly a wonder to behold. Even the Gardner's teenage daughter pesters her with questions about her hair, her nails, her clothes, her shoes. In Em's world, this is the natural order of things. I have to admit that even I'm in awe of her femininity, specifically, and her effect on people in general.

I realize I only know vaguely that Professor Gardner and my grandfather met in D.C.

I look at her quizzically. "Gardner-son, how did you first meet Henry?"

She stops rifling through the bag and looks up at me with an almost wondrous expression on her face. "It was at American University and he was doing a guest lecture there. Afterwards I somehow found the courage to talk to him. I'd only just come from college in Okinawa and it was my first year in the U.S. and my English wasn't very good." She only has a bit of an accent now. "Plus, I was so shy." Her? Shy? I can't even picture it.

"He said he hadn't been to Okinawa yet and asked me about my life there like it was the most fascinating thing on the planet."

"Yeah, that sounds exactly like him, he loves people's stories," I say as pain lances through me, reminding me of the time. I check my watch—still an hour and forty minutes until my flight.

"Believe me when I say that there was absolutely nothing fascinating about the fishing village I grew up in," she chuckles. "But he said he wanted to hear more and invited me to go with some professors and other students to dinner afterwards. When we got to the restaurant, Henry asked me to sit on one side of him, and asked this cute grad student just transferred from Duke to sit on the other side of him."

I gape as I make the connection, exclaiming, "He introduced you to Dr. Gardner?" I guess I knew that vaguely, too.

"Yes. He introduced me to my husband. And we went on to get our doctorates together and we kept in touch with Henry." She smiles sweetly. "So when he called years later to talk about your early acceptance to Stanford, Allen and I were thrilled to help."

She hands the bag over to Professor Zhang-Lei, who is still scowling quietly next to her. "Now Jun-yi has some other things to give you."

Professor Zhang-Lei pulls out an envelope and hands it over to me, an inscrutable expression on her face. "This is your official acceptance to the summer Chinese program."

Oh. My face falls. I take a deep breath. I don't take the envelope.

"Thank you Professor Zhang-Lei," I say carefully. "I know you went to a lot of trouble to get me accepted so early in my Chinese studies." I hesitate, thinking of the extra assignments and reading she suggested and I'm sure she ran interference with the summer program chair who wouldn't normally accept such a new Chinese language student. I let my breath out slowly. "But everything has changed. I know I won't be able to do it now." I know this definitively only right now. I hadn't allowed myself to think about it on the plane, but I add, "I cannot leave my grandfather."

I watch her face with apprehension, hoping she won't be too upset with me. She put a lot of work into getting me accepted. I brace myself for her reply, expecting a Mandarin diatribe, but she only pulls out another envelope and hands it to me, nodding. "I thought you might say that, so I took the liberty of drafting a letter in your name officially declining your place in the summer program. If this is acceptable to you, please sign it and I'll see it gets to the summer program chair."

I pull out the letter and unfold it; it is short and to the point, naming only a vague family emergency as the reason and expressing my apologies. I look up to see her holding out a pen towards me and I take it and sign the letter, folding it back into the envelope.

As I hand the letter and pen back to her, I know I should say something, but I'm so struck by the thoughtfulness of this, I cannot find any words, in any language. Instead, I gaze at her inscrutable face, trying to figure her out. I can't—I got nothing—and instead look down at the floor. Professor Gardner breaks this moment by pulling the bag back into her lap.

"So…this last thing…" she trails off, pulling what looks like a scroll tied with a ribbon out of the bag. "I tell you what, let's walk you to security first so you can get back to your gate. I'll give it to you there, okay?" She stands up as does Professor Zhang-Lei. I look at my watch—plenty of time still— take another deep breath and follow them down the wide airport terminal.

"You can keep this bag, too, it is a gift." Professor Gardner is holding it up and looking back at me, waiting for me to catch up.

I actually really look at it for the first time, black cloth with intricate embroidery and beading. I see the embroidery depicts all the animals of the Sheng Xiao—Chinese zodiac. The largest is a monkey in the center; the other eleven animals are all in a circle around it. I was born in the Year of the Monkey. It is beautiful and I say so.

"We didn't know if you'd have enough room in your own bag to carry these things, so…" She pauses, looking over at Professor Zhang-Lei. "But if you want to get on your flight, you might not want to tell security that someone gave it to you to carry on the plane. Especially since it's from a pair of _foreigners!_" She says in a mock scandalized voice.

For some reason, this reminds me of the question that's been rattling in the back of my rattled mind since I first listened to her voicemail. We stop a few yards away from the security line. It's not long at all.

"How did you know my flight info? What possessed you to drive all the way up here? You had to have gotten up at the crack of dawn to get here in time."

The unspoken question is _why._ Why come all the way to the airport? For me?

"Actually, it was Jun-yi's idea."

_Huh?_

My head whips around toward Professor Zhang-Lei, who just stares back at me impassively. I am incredulous; I wasn't even sure she _liked _me.

"When she got your email about having to leave your job in China, she looked up my school contact information and called, asking if I knew more." I had emailed her from Wuhan since she was the one who set up the job with the Songs. "I hadn't heard about Henry yet," she says with only the slightest hint of admonishment.

I choose to ignore that last bit, but the guilt washes over me anyway. "You two didn't know each other?"

"Nope! The East Asian languages department is huge, as you know; we knew who each other was, of course. But Jun-yi's coming over next week for one of Allen's Southern dinners." She hooks her arm through Professor Zhang-Lei's before continuing. "If she can handle ham hocks, collard greens and cornbread, we'll have her over again."

I don't say it, but I know too well there are a lot of worse things to eat in China. I look over at Professor Zhang-Lei again and am surprised to see what I think is a small smile on her face. Weird.

"See! Just like your grandfather, you're helping make connections!" Professor Gardner says brightly.

"Those connections are Henry's favorite thing," I say quietly, pain running through me anew. I glance at my watch. I've only been out here for only a handful of minutes. There's plenty of time, but I want to get back in.

"So this last thing…" Professor Gardner holds out the scroll tied with a red ribbon and I take it. "I pulled some strings to get this for you and there's still a request you have to file to make it…you know…_official._ The request you have to sign is in the bag, too.

She nods excitedly to indicate I should open it, so I untie the ribbon as she continues. "I would've had it framed, but, you know, the airplane and all. I figured this was easier." I unfurl the paper to see that it is a diploma from the School of Humanities and Sciences.

I have graduated.

I am speechless, I have no words but one, but I don't say it aloud. It reverberates around my head in a mental scream.

_Noooooo!_

Panic overtakes me and all of a sudden I feel so cold. The diploma curls back up, and practically jumps out of my hand, landing near Professor Zhang-Lei's feet. She stoops to pick it up, looking at me.

"You have more than enough credits to graduate in Japanese studies," Gardner-son chirps brightly, misreading my expression. "And really, a couple of possibilities of minors with only an additional credit or two, but I didn't worry about those for now in order to get this to you today."

I've held it together through multiple times zones and now, multiple days, but I can't any longer. I start to shake. I feel kicked out of the nest that is my school. Exposed. I do not _want_ to be a graduate. I am not ready to leave. I know I could've graduated several quarters ago, but…but...

_No!_

"And if you want to participate in the ceremony in June, or whenever, you just have to turn this in and another one will be reprinted and handed out then. But at least you have it in case…in case you can't…in case you don't…" she falters now, seeing my expression.

_In case you don't come back. _

Those are the words I can't even imagine now; the words I've pushed to the side since I got that call.

"Hey! It's okay! You've earned this. I've rarely seen a harder worker and Jun-yi agrees," she says kindly, hugging me, then draping the black bag over my shoulder.

She doesn't understand. I'm not sure I do either.

"You should probably get back to your gate." She stands aside. "Give Henry our best!"

Professor Zhang-Lei is watching all this with an inscrutable expression; her visor almost forming a halo around her head. She steps forward, standing directly in front of me, in my space, blocking out all else. She reaches out, wrapping me in a bony and stiff hug of someone clearly not used to hugging.

Hugging is just not very Chinese.

"The diploma does not mean anything. Go take care of your grandfather and come back whenever you can," she whispers in my ear in Mandarin. "I've found a replacement for your job with the Songs already." I cannot imagine how she did that so quickly. "Just email them as soon as you can before their son drives all of us crazy asking about you. I also put a textbook in your bag on Chinese writing because your traditional writing stinks, although your simplified writing is only mildly awful. Study it. Practice. We can talk about online classes, too, so you don't fall behind. I know I will see you again."

I whisper back, "Xie, xie nin." _Thank you. _Hugging her tighter.

She pulls out of my hug and tucks the diploma back in my new bag. Then loudly, in heavily-accented English, "You are too skinny," she says, in a voice that makes me think of overwrought Chinese theater. "Like a little boy!"

That's it. I can't help it. A small giggle escapes out of my mouth, more like a snort, as my panic dissipates. Because I know that what she really said, creatively translated, means _I understand. _

I fix her with a pointed smile, continuing this theater by giving her my best, most annoyingly insouciant teenage shrug, but have only gratitude in my eyes, in my being. She gives me her patented stern Chinese look, but behind that I see a prim suppressed smile. In this moment, I love her so much.

"Get to your plane." She shoos me toward security. "Go! We've got places to be and can't stand around here all day."

I walk the last few feet to the line—somehow, there are only a few people ahead of me—looking back once. Professor Gardner has concern etched on her face while Professor Zhang-Lei is back to being inscrutable. Gardner-son again hooks one arm in Professor Zhang-Lei's as she waves with the other. I notice the red ribbon that had tied the diploma in its neat little roll has fallen to the floor next to where they're standing. I don't look back again.


	3. Chapter 3

_**2…Lost Words**_

I did pretty well on the last flight, partially because, by some miracle, I had a row to myself, which was a godsend. But mostly it's that I took quite a lot of comfort from the airport visit with my professors, even in spite of having this dreaded diploma, which I pointedly do _not _think about further.

Now I'm sprinting down the LaGuardia airport terminal to baggage claim where Emory is meeting me, impeded only by the two bags I've put around my neck. They are banging against my hips with each stride.

I see her across the way—seeming like a beacon of sunshine in a yellow skirt suit that somehow does not clash with her perfect blonde hair—standing near a carousel. I feel a profound relief to finally be here, followed by a profound fear, then a profound sense of powerlessness. I jerk to a stop because my legs won't go forward anymore. I stare at Em, until she starts walking toward me. She goes to hugs me, but I stop her.

"No! Let's just go." I can't wait another second. "We need to go!" My legs start working again and I move toward the exit door. Em tugs my arm, stopping me in my tracks and turns me to face her.

"Elle?" she says gently, like I'm some cornered wild animal. I probably look like one.

"Can we just go? Please!"

She is looking at me so strangely. "I'm not sure what language you're speaking, but it's definitely not English. I'm pretty sure it's not Chinese or any of the other languages I've heard you speak."

I don't know what she's talking about. What's wrong with her? I look toward the exit doors.

"Now…" she waits until I'm looking at her again, speaking slowly. "We'll get your suitcase when it comes in and we'll go directly to Henry. I've got a car circling outside." From somewhere in the back of my brain, even through my panic, I notice she is using her soothing Georgia accent. This accent comes and goes at her will.

"I don't care about my bag!" I'm practically shouting. This time I hear myself and she's right, I'm not speaking English. I have no idea what language I am speaking, though, but I can't find English in my brain. I just…can't find it. Instead, I grab her arm and start pulling her toward the exit.

"Honey, it's just a few minutes, okay?" she says stopping again. "Let's wait for your suitcase. Things get stolen here all the time. I just came from Henry's and he's doing just fine. Aunt Bea was with him when I left."

I don't care about my stupid suitcase, but I can't find the words to say that. "Taxi," is all I say to her before I walk out the exit, leaving her.

"You don't even know where you're going!" she calls after me, following. "And there's so much I need to explain to you."

I whip around toward her and something in my eyes finally convinces her.

"Alright, alright." A black town car pulls up just then and the driver gets out opening the rear door. "You take the car and I'll wait for your bag and follow you in a cab, okay?" I jump inside as she says to the driver, "Marco, go ahead and take Miss Ellis back to the medical center."

"Yes, Miss Buchanan," he nods.

Em turns back to me. "It's that green wheeled backpack thing, right? Give me your baggage check info."

I quickly reach into the side pocket of my messenger bag and pull it out, thrusting it at her. "Chillax," she says smiling ruefully and I know it's because we both hate that word. "Go to the fifth floor, room 511. I'll see you in a few." She shuts the door and the car pulls out into the evening traffic.

I don't notice our route, really, until we exit the Queens tunnel and head south into the Midtown traffic. I jiggle impatiently until we pull up in front of a hospital. The driver stops the car in a drop off zone and before he even puts it in park, I've wrenched open the door and stumble out of the car, both the carryon bags still around my shoulders.

Now I hesitate in the gloomy twilight on the walkway in front of the automatic doors.

My entire being's purpose for the last…What is it? Almost two days now?...has been _Get to Henry, Get to Henry, Get to Henry. _And now that I'm here, I've gone fuzzy and don't know what to do next. I wish Em were here. Why isn't she? Then a vague memory comes with a stab of guilt that I left her to get my checked luggage, but I couldn't wait.

And now I can't move.

_Just go, just go, just go, _I mentally tell myself, but my legs won't work again. I've not been to a hospital in a year and a half—since my grandmother died. I look back to the town car, but it's already gone.

I hear a voice next to me and my head swings slowly toward it. A lady in pink scrubs is moving her mouth, but it's like she's talking underwater and I can't hear what she's saying. I become mesmerized by the cartoon medical instruments dancing on her top. She looks at me quizzically. Her mouth is moving again.

Slowly her words come through the water, "Can I help you with something?"

One bit of information comes back to me—_fifth floor_—and I hold up my hand indicating _five. _She must understand because she takes my elbow and leads me through the doors and over to a bank of elevators. When an elevator car arrives, she ushers me in and holds me up when I stumble over the threshold, then presses the five button, not letting go of my arm. When the doors open, she leads me out and asks who I am here to see. I hold up one finger twice to indicate room 11 and her face brightens.

"Oh! Mr. Ellis!" she exclaims. "You must be his granddaughter in from overseas. Your Aunt added you to the visitors' list earlier today. I work the desk of this floor." Her words are clear now, like I've breached the surface of the water and I gasp as the quiet hallway we're heading down comes into focus.

"Mr. Ellis has already come a long way in the week or so since he's been here at the rehab center. We're only really just starting his rehabilitation here in earnest today."

Wait. _What_?

He's been here a week? I surely didn't hear her correctly. She must read the question in my expression because she chirps, "Yes, he was transferred here after his hospital stay."

_After _his hospital stay? Transferred? What? This isn't a hospital? I am so confused, but can't find the words to ask. We stop in front of a half-closed door and she lets go of my arm to open it, peeking in.

"Looks like he's asleep now, but go ahead in. How about I'll give you some time first and then send Nurse Becker who can give you more details."

When I don't move, she nods toward the room, urging me in. "It's okay. Go ahead," she smiles kindly, then glances at her watch. "You've got awhile until visiting hours are over, but honestly, we're loose with them here, so don't worry overmuch." She turns and walks back down the hall.

I take a deep breath then step into the room, shutting the door behind me, before slowly walking toward the sleeping figure in the bed.

My mouth drops open in shock.

I almost do not recognize him.

I move toward the foot of the bed. The overhead lights are off, but there's a lamp near the bed that spills light onto his face. He looks ancient. His former sandy grey curls, are more white than they were just months ago. I stand there watching him, trying to rectify this man with _the_ Henry Ellis.

This is the man who was…is…was, before he retired, known as a kind of State Department _fixer. _The master translator who speaks nineteen languages _well, _not even counting the ones he has a sort of pidgin knowledge of—knowledge enough to get by in whatever country he's in. This is a man who makes a spectacle when he dances, which he does any chance he gets. This is the man who is enamored of music and art and food and people; people _everywhere. _He has friends, admirers on nearly every continent_. _He has quite literally dined with kings! And Presidents! And Premiers and Tribal Leaders and Prime Ministers and Dictators and Ambassadors and Religious Leaders and Nobel Prize winners and Tribal Lords and Generals and…_everyone!_

This is the man who can't walk a block down this city's streets—heck, _any _city's streets—without running into someone he knows. This is the man who is so alive, so _big; _not in physical stature so much as in personality, in wisdom, in kindness, in _love._

He is huge!

He is supposed to be _invincible. _This sleeping man, though, seems so…so…_diminished._

I become aware of wetness on my jaw that I don't understand at all. It's collecting in the scarf around my neck. I've not taken the two bags off my shoulders yet. They are strangling me. I remove them both and quietly as I can, put them on one of the chairs in the corner, then return to my sentinel at the foot of the bed. I reach out and slowly place my hands on the top of his feet through the sheets, curling my fingers around his ankles which feel so thin.

_I will not let you go, Father, Grandfather. I will not let you go. _I repeat this in my head, over and over again.

Henry's eyes blink open and slowly find mine. I do not move, just clutch his ankles tighter. There is confusion in his eyes. He opens his mouth and a gnarled sound escapes what I see are slack lips.

"Grandfather. Henry. It's Ellawyn."

He blinks rapidly and I see his eyes gain focus. He lifts one arm, reaching for me, and I quickly move around to the side of the bed, not letting go of his ankle until I can take his hand in one of mine.

"Yes, it's Elle. I'm here." I squeeze his hand, leaning down to kiss his cheek. "Your Little Bird." This is one of my longtime nicknames from Grandmother and him.

Another croaking sentence I can't make out at all. His eyes fill with tears. More unintelligible words.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," I say, trying to paste a comforting smile on my face. I think he tries to smile back, but I can't tell for sure before he closes his eyes, going back to sleep. I make sure he is breathing and then I just stand, clutching his hand, for an eternity.

I feel something on the back of my knees "Sit, Elle." It's Emory. I didn't even hear her come in. She has scooted a chair directly behind me. "We should talk. There are some things you should know."

I practically fall into the chair, but don't let go of Henry's hand. I shake my head. "Not now, Em. Not yet."

Other than muttering, "Finally, you're speaking English," Emory, thankfully and unusually, does not argue, but pulls up a chair beside me and sits silently. I've got a lot of questions for her, but…just…not yet.

She takes my other hand in hers and we stay like that. Quiet.

We hear a voice behind us and both turn around. This must be that nurse.

"Hi! You're Mr. Ellis's granddaughter, right?" She says this to Em, rather loudly, as she makes her way to the opposite side of Henry's bed. I quickly look to see if she woke him up, but his eyes are still closed. "I'm Nurse Jenner, who monitors him during his afternoon rehab exercises."

"She is his granddaughter," Em whispers motioning to me. "And we should move to the hallway so we don't wake up Henry."

"Oh, we don't have to worry about that," she chirps. "He sleeps like the dead!" As one, both our heads swivel to the nurse, who looks between Emory and me, blanching. "He's…um…he's, you know…a good sleeper."

I turn back to Henry, but I know this nurse is probably withering under one of Em's Oh-No-You-Didn't stares. Those stares are somehow ladylike and menacing at the same time.

The nurse finds her voice again, but quieter this time. "He needs his rest, but I know he'll sleep through and wake on the dot of…"

"Seven a.m." the nurse and I say at the same time, mine barely a whisper. Well, that's one thing that hasn't changed with Henry. His internal clock is so strong that no matter what time he went to bed, in any time zone, he always woke precisely at seven. This is heartening and gives me courage to find out more, but I don't want to talk over him. It feels unseemly.

Em must be reading my mind. "The hallway," she says, brooking no argument. She stands up, pulling me with her. I give Henry's hand a squeeze and release it, letting Em lead me out with the nurse following.

When we get outside, Nurse Jenner says, in a lower voice this time, "It's past visiting hours now, so we're going to have to be quiet out here so we don't disturb the other patients."

I don't look at Em, but can imagine she's got another one of _those looks _on her face. "Why don't you tell Miss Ellis a little about what you all do here," she says in a clipped voice.

The nurse says this is a rehab facility that's affiliated with the university medical center, working on stroke patients, among other types of infirmities. After a stroke patient is stabilized in the hospital, and then released, they can come here to relearn the things they lost. The nurse cannot remember precisely when Henry got here but thinks it was late last week and that he was in the hospital for about a week prior to that. When the nurse says this, Em clutches my hand tighter.

Nearly two weeks! Two weeks? I am flooded with a jumble of emotions at this news and I can't think.

They are primarily going to work on Henry's motor skills first and speaking skills. My legs nearly give out when the nurse says, "Right now, Mr. Ellis cannot speak at all. We should start his language therapy this week." Em is the only thing that keeps me upright. The nurse talks some more, but I don't hear her any longer.

Henry can't speak? At all? The man who knows multiple foreign languages _can't speak?_

He. Can't. Speak. _At. All?_

The nurse offers to leave a note with his medical doctor to stop by tomorrow when he gets in. When she leaves, I notice that she has spoken only to Em. My eyes follow her down the hallway until Em leads me back into the room.

"You spend a few minutes with Henry and then I'll take you home. I'll stay with you tonight and we'll come here fresh tomorrow and meet with the doctor."

I don't say anything as I sit back in the chair by the bed and gently take Grandfather's hand. Em puts her hand over both Henry's and mine. He doesn't wake again.

We sit like this until Em says, "You know I love him, too."

I whisper, "I know. He knows. And he loves you right back." When her eyes fill with tears, my throat burns and I have to look away. We are quiet again.

"Elles, I'm going to take you home now. Henry is okay and he's going to sleep through the night. I'll wait outside while you say goodnight to him." I watch her go.

It feels strange to spend so much time and energy to get to my grandfather only to leave him after a relatively short time. But the nurse is right, he is a good sleeper and I've got things to think about, things to figure out. I've got to get my mind around _all this._

I stand up and lean over my favorite person in the world. Grandfather. I place his hand gently back on the bed and move to clutch both his shoulders, pouring all the love I have into my hands, my words.

"I am right here, right now. I am going just a couple miles away for the rest of the night. You will stay right here until I am back before you wake, understand?" His closed eyes twitch slightly and I take that as an answer. "You are not to leave." It is not that I'm afraid he's going to wake up and walk out; it's a different kind of leaving that I am thinking about. I kiss his cheek and try not to notice how papery and dry his skin feels.

The words the Mediterranean Man said on the plane come back to me as I grab my ancient messenger bag and the new one from my professors, putting them over my shoulders.

"Allah yoofithook," I whisper as I walk out the door. _May God be with you._

And even though I don't know what it means, I add the other thing that kind man on the plane said to me. "Hoowa mocktoob."

The town car is waiting outside the hospital. No, I mentally correct myself…_rehabilitation center, _it says so clearly on the sign that I didn't notice when I came in. As soon as the driver has pulled away from the curb, I turn to Em.

"When did you find out?"

"This is what I wanted to warn you about in the car from the airport," she looks contrite. "So you wouldn't be so shocked when one of the staff mentioned it.

More emphatically, "When did you find out, Em?"

"Sheesh! About five seconds before I called you in China, Elle! You know I wouldn't keep anything like this from you."

I stare at her before nodding. I know she wouldn't. "How did you find out?"

"Aunt Bea called me Saturday night."

This is what I already knew subconsciously—that Bea was somehow behind keeping me in the dark. Aunt Bea is not really my aunt, but was married to a second cousin of my grandmother's for a short time many years ago. Everyone calls her Aunt Bea, although she is no one's aunt. She lives across the hall from us.

"What else do you know?"

"Bea found him after he had come home from a dinner party. She called an ambulance that took him to the hospital where it was determined he'd had a stroke. He was stabilized and was deemed to be out of immediate danger. A few days later when a place opened up, he was moved to the rehabilitation center." Her voice has a clipped just-the-facts-ma'am tone.

"Why was I not told immediately?"

"I don't know exactly other than Henry didn't want Bea to tell you."

These words…ugh…these words are yet another stab through the heart. The pain is nearly unbearable. I wrap my arms around my middle and start with the rocking back and forth again. When my beloved grandmother died of uterine cancer, I wasn't told until the very end, when I was home for Christmas break and the evidence of her ill health was irrefutable. I had barely two weeks with her once I knew. The heartbreak of that is mixed in with this new horror.

"Hey, sweetie. Hey…" Em wraps her arms around my moving torso and for once, my best friend is not comforting. This is suffocating. "Don't worry. I'll stay with you tonight and we'll take care of Henry together." I notice from somewhere in the back of my brain that Em has reverted to her uber-Southern accent. "Elles, it's okay," she coos and I just want her to shut up.

I shrug out of her embrace and do my best to shrug out of the pain. It helps that right now I'm feeling…what? Maybe a little _angry. _I'm not at all sure what I'm mad at, though. It's not at Emory. I look out the window to see we are barreling down 2nd Avenue. There isn't much traffic at this hour.

"After you drop me off, I want you to go back to your apartment," I say, staring out the window. We're getting close, we're crossing Delancey and I recognize the mostly closed shops near our building on the edge of both Chinatown and Little Italy.

"I don't want you alone in The Rambler tonight, honey." The Rambler is the very apt nickname of our apartment because it is a huge rambling space.

I turn to her, my face impassive. "Em, no."

"But I have so many other things to tell you and…"

I cut her off. "Right now there is nothing else." I feel a little guilty, but I can't hear anything else, this is not the time to catch up. "I need to think. I need to sleep." She is used to getting her way, but I am determined. "I'll call you tomorrow," I say definitively.

She is my best friend and I know her well. I can see her sharp-as-a-tack mind working; the wheels turning behind those big blue doe eyes.

"I'll pick you up in the morning then. What time?"

"Don't you have work?"

Em is interning at Vogue magazine as some kind of assistant to an editor. It was a real coup to get this job and it is this internship that she will use as research to write her senior thesis for her business degree. She's been there for about a month, leaving for New York around the time I went to China.

"This is more important. Henry is more important," she says.

And in this moment, I know I don't want her to come to the center tomorrow although I can't come up with a reason in my jumbled mind. I'm spared from thinking about it further because we've stopped in front of our building.

"We'll talk tomorrow," I say again as Marco opens my door, holding out his hand to help me from the car. Emory scoots over toward the door. I lean in to block her. "No. You don't have to get out." I put my arms around her in a hug. "Thank you so much for getting my bag at the airport. And coordinating everything, in your usual style." I release her and step back, adding softly, "But most of all, for calling me in China."

"As if I would do anything else," she sniffs.

"Now go home and get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Do you have your keys, Elle?"

Oh. I shrug. "Somewhere, but I can just use the codes. Thank you so much." I shut the door. I hear her roll down the window, but thankfully she doesn't open the car door. If she got out, she'd probably come in and I'm not sure any machinations could stop her. All I want is to be alone.

I sag against the wall of the elevator as it inches up toward the top floor. It is now I think Em has probably texted Aunt Bea to tell her I'm home. "Crap!" I mutter out loud. I should've thought of that and told her not to. I don't want to deal with Bea right now. The elevator pings to a stop and the doors open. I roll the bag down the hallway, seeing Bea's closed apartment door. Maybe I'm safe.

Or rather, she is.

No, of course not. I hear her door open and decide then to ignore her and continue on to The Rambler.

"You got a new word for me?"

I come to a dead stop at this question, not ten feet past her door. Her mellifluous voice makes my spine crawl. Because this is always the first thing she asks me when I get home from some far-flung foreign land or another. I teach her a new word, usually a foreign cuss word, sometimes just a word that's funny or unusual, and have done so since she moved here.

This is our thing.

But right now, right now her question crawls right under my skin. Because…because _As If _this is just a normal return from some foreign jaunt with my grandparents or a quarter in Japan for school! _As if_ I didn't just find out that Henry can't speak! Can't communicate _at all!_ _As if_ everyone is not keeping things from me like I'm some baby! _As if_ I didn't know she had a hand in this.

_AS IF!_

I turn around slowly to see her door opened only enough for her eyes to peer out behind her thick nerdy eyeglasses. "Oh. I've got a word for you. Several, in fact," I say, deathly quiet, gladdened to see she looks a little scared.

She blinks, waiting. Yeah, she _should _be scared.

All the frustration, terror, sleeplessness and powerlessness I've repressed in these _days_ of trying to get to Henry rises up in me, overtakes me. I am shaking with these emotions. I focus on her eyes, all my fury directed at those two blinking brown orbs.

"YEAH! HERE'S A WORD…" I scream, but I can't come up with any of the curses I know in any language, and I know _a lot _of them. But…nothing. This just makes me more frustrated. More angry. It overwhelms me, rendering me almost mute.

Finally I find one word in my brain and I yell, "STUPID!"

Bea waits a beat then shrugs her eyebrows, "I already know that word."

This just incenses me further. I open my mouth again and all that comes out is some strangled sound from the back of my throat… "Ghhh…" I get a brief flash back to Henry's beside—this is what he sounded like—before I take another breath and find…"EXTRA STUPID!"

I am so furious at my own lame invective that I scream it again.

"YOU'RE EXTRA STUPID!"

We stare at each other down the hallway for a long moment. I hear scratching from behind her door. Bea opens it another couple feet and Petal, our elderly white and tan and black dog comes scrabbling out to greet me, butt wiggling. I glare at Bea before leaning my bags against the wall and get down on my knees to greet Petal back. I am plied with slobbering kisses.

My grandmother Rosamunde showed up at the apartment with her late one Saturday afternoon in September a couple years ago when I was back in New York on a school break. We were about to go out to dinner to celebrate Grandmother's birthday early since I couldn't be here for the actual day.

"This beautiful girl is my birthday present to me," I remember her saying like it was yesterday. "Her name is Petal." She had a look of studied nonchalance as Grandfather and I stood in the living room, gaping at her, at them both. We hadn't had a dog since Leo, when we lived in London. This new dog looked a bit like him—same stocky body and blocky head.

"You can't name a dog your own nickname," was all Granddad had said. "It's not right." Henry had, _has, _a host of constantly changing nicknaming rules.

Grandmother pulled out her imperious and very patrician countenance that Henry had nicknamed—yes, he nicknames _everything_—her Main Line Philadelphia look. And right then, new dog leash in hand, she went straight up Main Line Philly, holding up her hand in a stop-right-there gesture.

"That is her name," Grandmother said haughtily, daring him to argue. When he didn't, wisely, she turned on her heel to the kitchen, new dog and us all following. We watched her fill an antique china bowl with water to give to the new dog. As far as I know, not another word was said about it and Petal joined our family right then.

I flew back to Palo Alto to start a new quarter the next day. Grandma died when I was home a few months later for Christmas break.

I get a pang in my heart remembering Petal's first day with us as I'm in the hallway hugging and kissing her, ignoring Bea—who has shared both care and custody of this dog since the beginning—still standing in her doorway.

I whisper to Petal loudly, "Sweetie girl, I'm not mad at _you. _No, I'm not." I scratch all her favorite places as she wiggles around and around in circles, pausing to lick my entire face. "_You're_ not the stupid one," I coo. "You're a good dog, yes you are. A good dog who would _never_ keep vitally important things from me."

My anger dissipates in the midst of Petal's welcome home love fest, which just makes me mad all over again because I'm sure that was Bea's plan.

"Petal won't save you," I say quietly, pointedly not looking at Bea, but I can't muster much anger. All I really feel now is a profound and absolute fatigue.

"Petal saved Henry."

I go stock still, but for my eyes whipping up to meet hers.

"Yeah," Bea nods. "Petal saved Henry." She opens the door all the way, saying, "Come on, girl,"—I don't know which girl she's referring to—before disappearing into her apartment. Petal walks out of my grasp, following.

Of course my burning curiosity makes me scramble to my feet, drawing me to the open doorway where the smell of baking makes my stomach rumble. I realize I've not eaten one thing since a breakfast of rice in Wuhan, which was Saturday night New York time. I hadn't noticed until right now, but suddenly I am almost wild with hunger.

I peer into the huge living room, which really looks more like a radio station-slash-record store than a living space. There is one sitting area with two mid-century modern sofas, some chairs, a coffee table, and a big screen TV. Another area has a series of desks and tables with microphones, banks of computers, turntables, and other electronic equipment on them. But mostly this room, and the interior hallway leading to the two small bedrooms beyond, and the bedrooms themselves, hold thousands upon thousands of vinyl albums and CDs, along with some movies and books, mainly rock anthologies. There are filled-to-bursting shelves of every kind against just about every available wall space. The stretch of wall above the shelves is filled with rock posters, music-themed movie posters and gold and platinum records awarded to Bea, all the way to the high ceiling. But for the media, equipment, and colorful artwork, nearly all of the rest of it is white—white walls, white furniture, white curtains, bleached wood floors, with only a smattering of color on the rugs and pillows and a soft, metallic, sky blue ceiling.

And all of it is meticulously and scrupulously and fastidiously clean. You could not find one stinking dust mote in this entire space if you tried.

Bea was a long time and top-rated radio DJ and then program director in a host of cities across the country before she moved here four years ago. She left her traditional radio station job and started broadcasting on the internet, streaming a series of different-themed music shows several times a week. She has a cult following around the world. Every now and again I would overhear some fellow Stanford students talking about her podcasts, which would make me feel a swell of pride in her.

But I don't want to think about that now; I want to hold onto whatever thread of anger I can find.

Bea calls from the kitchen, "I made blintzes. Cheese ones."

Damn her! Those are my favorite, as she well knows. She is an expert in two things; music and cooking—okay, and maybe cleaning, too. I stay in the doorway even though my empty stomach is urging me inside.

"Blintzes won't save you either!" I call back.

"Fresh from the oven." Bea breezes in from the kitchen holding a plate brimming with manipulative mini blintzes and sets it on the coffee table before collapsing on the white sofa in a swirl of silver-blue silk from the elaborately embroidered caftan she's wearing. Petal sits next to her knees, voodoo-staring at the plate.

Bea has engaged both my mind and my stomach; I'm not sure which is taking precedence right now. I pause, not ready to give in to either. My mouth waters.

"I don't want any of your stupid blintzes," I lie. "But I want you to tell me everything about Henry. And I mean _ev-er-y-thing," _I say imperiously from the doorway, trying out my own Main Line Philly look. "But…But," I add, a tiny bit juvenile, like the _qingshaonian_ I am, "I am not talking to you."

Bea both nods and shrugs, "Fair enough."

I wait a beat, then walk in, leaving my bags out in the hall. We're the only two apartments on this floor and you need an elevator or stair code or key to get up here anyway. I leave the door open, which is how it usually stays unless Bea's in the midst of taping a show.

I purposefully do not take off my shoes, as is the rule, daring her to admonish me. Bea, very judiciously, does not say a word about it, although I see her eyes flit down to my oxfords and I know she's thinking that these shoes have walked through several airports in several cities since I've put them on. I imagine she'll get out the mop and disinfectant as soon as I leave.

Ha! Serves her right.

I sit on the sofa next to her, my eyes on that plate, not unlike our dog's. I wrest them away to meet Bea's eyes and say again, "_Ev-er-y-thing._ Go!"

"Have a blintz," she says.

"Start talking," I reply, but my traitor eyes move back to the plate on the coffee table. I am practically drooling, again, just like Petal, but I will not lose this admittedly tiny and pointless battle of wills.

I hear Bea take a deep breath and then let it out slowly, "We were here alone, doing some cleaning," by "we," I know she means Petal and her. "She'd already been out for her last walk of the night. It was about eleven or so."

Of its own accord, my hand has reached out to grab a blintz. I bring it to my mouth and am about to bite into it when I notice Bea has paused with a small smile on her face. Instead, I blow on it for a few seconds until it's cool enough and then put it in front of Petal's nose. She scarfs it up. I know she will have gas all night from this. When I see Bea's smile dissolve, I feel a pang of guilt, which annoys me.

"Go on," I say, reaching over to grab three more blintzes, which I immediately stuff in my mouth, one right after the other.

Another deep breath. "Petal was acting squirrely. She kept running in and out of the apartment; the door was open, of course. It took me awhile to notice it for what it was because I was vacuuming, but I finally did. I followed her out to the hallway and she was scratching at the door to the stairs." Bea generally won't use the elevator, only the stairs.

"I figured she needed to go out again," Bea looks pointedly at the plate, "maybe because she ate something she shouldn't have."

I refuse to feel guilty, but I do grab another blintze and stuff it in my mouth.

"So I ran inside and got her leash and my phone, punched in the buttons for 911, like usual, but didn't hit send, of course." This is always what she does on the rare times when she goes outside—has 911 ready to call—which mostly now, is only to walk Petal. She's never had to actually use it.

"We went down the stairs, Petal running ahead, and when we got to the lobby she runs to the front door. I see Henry had just come through the outer door and was using his keys to open the inner door. He was having trouble—you know that lock sticks sometimes—so I hurried over to open it for him. When I did, he just stood there. He didn't come inside. He just stood there. He stood there like he didn't see me."

Bea's faraway eyes are somewhere at a point above my head, but I don't think she sees her living room. Her mind is in that lobby on that night.

"Petal was circling around him. Over and over again. Just circling." She stops and closes her eyes. "And then he went down. Petal cushioned his fall. Just inside the door. And I must've let go of it, the door, and it would've slammed into him, into his face, but Petal caught that, too. That door is heavy glass. And I just stood there, shocked, I guess."

Bea is breathing hard, her eyes closed now, still in that lobby. I am right there with her. The vision of Grandfather collapsing on that hard, old, chipped marble floor makes me shudder.

"And I'm on my knees when I hear something. Kept hearing something. A woman's voice. For some weird second I think it's Petal talking, but she's licking Henry's face and you know…I mean…she's a dog." She shrugs. "But for a second there…for a second there..."

"Finally I realize it's my phone. I must've accidentally hit the button to call 911 and what the woman was saying was, 'What's the nature of your emergency. Hello? What's your emergency? Hello. Can you hear me?'

"And I lifted the phone to my ear and said, 'Ambulance.' She asked for the address first and said she was sending one now and then asked other questions. Like…who's hurt and what's wrong and I started to say that I didn't know, but what came out of my mouth was 'Stroke.' Like I knew it. And she asked if he's breathing and I put my hand on his back and I can't tell and was in the process of turning him over and they were there—the paramedics.

"They were there so fast. Like, in a blink. I had to step over Henry, with Petal still keeping the inner door open, to let them in. And they took over. And got him out of there and into the ambulance. It was a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds. All of it was just no time at all."

Bea blinks her eyes open and she's back in her living room.

"Do you know where they were?" she asks.

I look at her blankly.

"The ambulance people. The paramedics," she explains. "Do you know where they were?" She pauses. "They were at the dumpling shop."

_Which one_? I think. _We're on the edge of Chinatown and there are dumpling shops all_ _over._

"The one on our block." Bea answers my unspoken question. "The one just down the street, like, ten shop fronts down the street. They didn't even have to circle the block to come up on our one-way street. I talked to them at the hospital when I followed in a cab after running Petal back up to the apartment." That's Mr. and Mrs. Lui's restaurant and is the absolute closest dumpling shop to our building, and the best.

"It was a man and a woman, the paramedics, and they said they mostly worked Lower Manhattan and were on a mission to find the best dumplings in the city and they randomly came up on that one because it was one of the few open so late."

I stare at her letting this coincidence sink in.

"They never even got to try their dumplings. The call came in just after they'd ordered," she says mournfully. Someone not getting their food is probably abhorrent to her.

This brings me right to a question I'd not asked yet. A question I know Bea would want to avoid.

"What night was it?" I ask, quietly.

Bea doesn't answer, doesn't look at me, but reaches down to scratch Petal's head.

"Bea," more adamant this time, "What. Night. Was. It." I wait.

Finally, she glances up from Petal, her eyes meeting mine and I see she has the grace to look penitent. "Thursday," she whispers. "Thursday night." She sits back on the sofa, her eyes cast downward.

And I know she doesn't mean last Thursday, four days ago. She means Thursday the week before that; more than a week and a half ago. I let this sink in, while Bea has turned back to petting Petal, avoiding the accusation in my eyes.

That was Friday Wuhan time. I had spent that day teaching and that night as I did every Friday since I'd been there, at the neighborhood market with Dragon, practicing my Chinese—he loves to correct my pronunciation, maybe a little too gleefully—and looking for gifts to bring home. Oblivious. And the following week, going about my days, teaching English, taking walks. Oblivious.

The thought makes me feel sick. All of those blintzes I ate are now curdling in my stomach. It was all chance. Just chance—Petal scratching at the door, that they got to Henry so quickly. Chance that he's…

Before I know it, I've said it aloud, "What if he had…" But I stop, shuddering. I can't finish the sentence. "He's the only family I have left."

Bea looks a little hurt. "What am I? Chopped liver?"

I nod, petulantly, not quite ready to alleviate her guilt.

"Alright. I guess I deserve that."

We sit silently, each lost in our thoughts. My eyes rove around her pristine apartment, landing on what I think is some new equipment. For someone who rarely leaves her house, she is super-connected to the world; twittering, facebooking, emailing her radio show fans around the world. Which brings my thoughts to…

"You sent that text." Bea won't look at me. "To me. In China. Canceling Henry's phone call."

"Possibly."

"Henry doesn't text," I muse aloud, looking up at her ceiling. My grandmother helped choose that soft blue color. "I've gotten one text from him since I left for school and it was just to say that he didn't like texting. I should've known."

"Don't blame yourself," Bea says, sincerely.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I don't." My eyes leave the ceiling to meet her concerned brown ones. "I fully blame you."

"Fine, be mad at me," She sighs. "Just don't be mad at Henry."

"Were you ever going to tell me? Or would you have just left me to rot in China for months, not knowing."

"I did tell you."

"Uh, I hate to state the obvious, but it was Emory who called me."

"Yeah, but I told Em knowing she would call you, so technically, I could let you know, but still keep my promise to Henry."

I've been facing front, my feet on the floor next to Petal, whose eyes have not left that plate, but now I turn facing Bea directly, curling my shoe-clad feet under me on the sofa as punishment, daring her to say anything.

"Why? Why, Bea? Why not just tell me immediately and let me come home to be with my grandfather? Why?"

A long pause. "Henry didn't want you to know." A cocktail of emotions flits across her face.

"I still don't understand, though," and now I almost feel close to crying and I don't cry. "Why?"

"He didn't want you to leave school and have to take care of him." Bea is near tears, too, her voice rising with every word. "He didn't want that burden on your shoulders. He didn't want you to worry. He wanted you to be a kid for as long as possible!" And then, "He didn't want you hurt again!"

Oh. I feel a glimmer of understanding. As if that's even possible. I watch the tears drip down her face and fall onto the silk of her caftan, darkening the silver blue to navy.

"Bea." She won't look at me, her eyes screwed shut against the tears. I say more forcefully, "Bea, I'm not seven any more, you know. I'm not seven!"

She meets my eyes, alarmed, because we, none of us, ever talk about that time. The full understanding drops like a lead weight onto my head. That was exactly what Henry was thinking about, what he was trying to protect me from—more hurt. More loss. As if that's even possible.

"I'm not seven anymore. I'm not seven." God, I'm so tired. That's the last thing I remember saying, over and over again. "I'm not seven. I'm not seven anymore."

Oblivion.

_I clamber up my dad's back, shrieking, laughing, pulling at his blonde curls, wrapping my arms around his neck. I point in front of him toward the left, toward a small brown figure clinging to a low-hanging branch. "Closer, Dad. Get closer!" _

_He moves us two steps toward it._

"_Closer." He takes two more steps._

"_Closer, Dad. She's beautiful."_

_He takes another couple steps and we are only a few feet from the brave little monkey, who is watching us, head tilted._

_Dad whispers, "See, she's one of your kind. Mono ardilla." Squirrel Monkey._

"_I thought I was a mono aullador," I whisper back. Howler monkey._

"_You are all kinds of monkeys, Little Monkey," he chuckles. "Depending on the day. On the moment."_

_I hear my mom behind us, "Not too close, John!" _

_I turn toward her; she's come out of our little house, brown hair gleaming in the sun streaming through the clearing, brown eyes twinkling. "Do you see it, mama? Do you see it?"_

_There is a bad smell. A really bad smell. _

_I turn back to the monkey, but it has changed. Grown. Has black hair. Looks human. It opens its mouth to scream in Chinese, "Ai xiao de houzi!" _

_Little Monkey._

My eyes fly open. I am looking up at a clear blue sunlit sky. I blink. No, a ceiling with a disco ball. Aunt Bea's! My breathing slows down.

The dream fades, but not the awful smell; that just gets worse. I am stretched out on Bea's sofa, my head on a pillow in her lap. She is sitting upright, asleep; her head slumped over on her shoulder above me, mouth open. I watch her breathing.

I don't know how old she is, she won't tell me, says she is "ageless," but she's probably around the age my parents would be now, if they were alive—in her forties. She's sort of pretty, with an uncommon face. I've known her for as long as I can remember; we used to visit her before she came here to live, but I have no idea why she is the way she is—why she's almost a shut-in. Aunt Bea doesn't like to talk about her past, that much I do know.

Maybe it's because I just dreamed of my parents, but I get another memory of us visiting Bea at a radio station and I swear I know it's Austin. Bea let me talk into a big microphone and I chattered away while my mom and dad looked on, smiling. The weirdest thing is that she's wearing jeans, not the caftans I always tease her about now. Strange.

She opens her eyes, lifts her head from her shoulders and looks down at me. "Why are you smiling?"

I didn't know I was. It was thinking of my mom and dad, and for once, this didn't hurt, but I don't say that. "I just had a memory of you in Texas, I'm pretty sure, at a radio station. You were wearing jeans. And cowboy boots."

"How in the world do you remember that? You were so young!"

"So it was Texas? Austin? I was right?"

She doesn't answer, but she sniffs at the air as her face screws up, "You smell!"

"No, _you _smell," I parry back. This is familiar territory. I notice a comforting warmth along my right side and look over to see Petal is wedged between me and the sofa back, asleep. "There's your smell," I say as I swivel to put my sock-clad feet on the floor—of course Bea took my shoes off in my sleep. I notice the plate on the coffee table where there were at least four or five blintzes left. It's empty. Petal must've scarfed them up and now has the gas to prove it.

"I will leave you with Petal's noxious fumes," I say as I get to my feet, padding over to pick up my shoes on the rug by the door, next to Bea's shrine to legendary DJ John Peel. The vintage starburst wall clock says it's four in the morning, plenty of time before I have to leave to get to Henry when he wakes.

"Do you want me to come with you to the rehab center tomorrow? Or I guess it's actually later today?" Bea asks, yawning.

"No, I don't. You'll have to be here to take care of the diarrhea Petal's going to have all day from those blintzes." But I know deep down that that's not really the reason I don't want her to go. "Serves you right."

I start to leave when I hear her whisper, "Am I forgiven?"

I want to ignore her because the fact is, I don't know. All I do know is I need a shower and to get out of these clothes.

She asks again, softly, "Am I forgiven?"

The plea in her voice tugs at my heart, just a little. I turn to face her. Despite the entreaty in her doleful eyes, despite the fact that I cannot ever seem to hold grudges long, I'm not ready to let her off the hook outright just yet. This is all too big and I've got to get my mind around it first.

Instead, with all the sarcasm I can muster, looking her right in the eye with a mock sneer on my face, I say, "Nice housedress."

Before I leave I see her hopeful smile. Because in our language, Bea knows that, creatively translated, this means, "We'll see."


	4. Chapter 4

_**3…New Structures**_

"Going Walkabout," as Grandmother called it, is something I've done with my grandparents in dozens of cities in dozens of countries, especially when we first arrived somewhere, and it's something I've continued to do on my own. It's a great way to get your bearings and figure out the structure of a new place, the layout of the land. I'm in Manhattan and don't need to get my geographic bearings, but I do need to figure out the structure of this new world I've entered—one where Henry is…_changed_, one where _everything_ is changed.

For the first time since I got the call in China, my head is starting to clear—the fog, the fear, the trauma dissipating with every long stride of my chunky oxfords, an expensive birthday gift from Emory, to, as she called it, "elevate my style." It was her mission sophomore year to get me out of Chucks and Vans, and like with everything else, she succeeded. I smile at the memory and make a mental note to call or text her when I get closer to Henry's. I didn't do it before leaving because for one, she's probably still asleep. And most importantly, she would've had a fit that I was walking up to the rehab center at this hour. But this Walkabout is exactly what I need. It's only a couple miles at most.

My thoughts are getting looser already. I can almost see them lifting up from the crumbled structure of my old life, rearranging, shifting, and all this in under two city blocks so far, although the hour-long shower I took helped, too. It's five-thirty in the morning, still dark, cool, but not too cold. Yesterday's rain has cleansed the air. The city is mostly still asleep except for the flurry of delivery trucks keeping me company—they are in full swing. I know many of the owners of the shops surrounding our building, but am glad that I've not run into any of them beginning their days. I do not want to stop and talk. I want to walk. And think.

I pick through the rubble of the old structure, turning over every revelation of the last two days, looking for anything I can salvage as I decide how to build again.

For one, I'm not a student any longer—I've even got the dreaded diploma to prove it. That thought is already less radioactive than it was even fifteen minutes ago as I dumped out the contents of the bag the professors had given me onto the coffee table. The scrolled diploma had come out and been unceremoniously flattened by the heavy Chinese textbook Professor Zhang-Lei had put in there. I didn't touch the diploma, just grabbed the Japanese candy, book of haiku, and the get well card from Professor Gardner, putting them in my messenger bag to take up to Henry.

I kick the thought around as I cross Delancey—I am not a student anymore, I am not a student anymore—until it almost, _almost_ loses its sharp edges by the time I turn onto the street that will become 1st Avenue. I will stay on this road—heading north and a little east—all the way up to the rehab center.

I say it out loud. "I am not a student anymore," making the cadence of it match each step. "I am not a student anymore."

Which, of course, begs the question…What am I?

The answer floats out of the mental dust and debris, forming into something close to solid. My occupation has, and always will be, someone who takes care of her grandparents. Lifts their burdens in any way I can, makes them happy, does my duty, in whatever form or structure that entails. That hasn't changed, although now, of course, it's just Henry. My being in school was the form that occupation took before. It made both of them so happy and secure for me to be there and I dug right in, excelling at school, even making friends. I can't deny that it made me feel happy and secure, too, but that is so far secondary as to render it inconsequential. Either way, I can't do it—take care of my grandparents—that way any longer.

So…so…The old structure is gone, but not the occupation. I walk into this thought for a few blocks before I move onto the new. And there it is…I am someone who will make Grandfather well. By any means necessary.

This new thought, this new knowledge, this new job, this new _structure _fills me with purpose and determination; my stride lengthens as I walk into it. I will make Henry well. I will get him talking again.

Of course…I have no idea how, but I will figure it out: I will use the same work ethic that has me now a college graduate—ugh!—at not yet twenty-years-old. Nose to the grindstone, methodically working through whatever I need to. I'll know more after talking to the doctors and nurses today. I pick up the pace, my mind quiet for a moment, loosening further until a new realization floats up from the depths until I now know why I didn't want Emory and Bea to come with me today.

Those two for sure, but probably everyone else in my life as well, have stronger personalities than I do. I am not shy, but I am generally quiet, except within the very close circle of those I consider family.

I've got to tell Emory not to come today and make it stick, not let her override me, as usual. Because if she does come, I will fade into the woodwork and everyone I talk to today, all those doctors and nurses, will naturally defer to Em. Heck, _I _will naturally defer to Em. It is not her fault, but that's just the way it always is. I followed her lead at school, at least through the social aspects of it, because who better to learn from than someone who was so successful at it. A Master, really. But she doesn't know this new job any better than I do. I may have to work on Em with this, no…not _may; _I will _definitely _have to work on Em. Because this time, it's got to be me who takes the lead, who makes this happen, who takes care of Henry, takes care of everything—our home, his health, everything. Me. I will really have to step up to make it so he doesn't have to think or worry about anything, but just use his energy getting well and talking again.

Wait!

Henry!_ Henry can't talk!_

And if Henry can't talk_, how did Bea know to keep this from me?_

How did I not think of this until now! He couldn't possibly have said it _after _his stroke. I am half-tempted to get mad at Bea all over again, but I squelch it instead because that will not help right now. I'll talk to her about it tonight. I am coming up to 34th Street, just one more long block to Henry's and one more thing to do before going in.

I stop on the corner to mentally strategize before texting Emory.

_Rather than coming to the rehab center, why don't you go on to work today and meet me afterwards. We'll have dinner there with Henry, okay?_

I steel myself as I turn onto the block, hoping she's still asleep and won't reply. Damn! I hear my phone sing out "Georgia On My Mind," Em's ring tone. I take a deep breath before answering.

"What!" Em exclaims. "No, I'm coming in the car to pick you up. I'm just getting dressed now." Em is living in a Sutton Place sublet, not far from here.

I immediately set to work employing my strategy. "You took off of work yesterday, right?"

"Only the afternoon to fetch you from the airport. Well, and I came in late after I checked on Henry in the morning." For all her outward seeming softness and frivolity, she is so serious and duty-bound about anything she takes on. And, right now I'm going to leverage that. This subtle manipulation is something I've learned from her, but I've never used it before. At least not with any success.

"I'm quite sure you have those fashion people wrapped around your little Georgia finger, but you can't take off numerous days. You meet me at the rehab center when you're done with work. I'll be there."

"But I want to help you navigate all these doctors and everything!"

I bristle at this just a little. Sheesh, as if I am a child! Emory is only two years older than I am. "Let us not forget that I am perfectly capable of navigating through China on my own, for heaven sakes! I can take care of my own grandfather." This came out a little more barbed than I meant it to. I need to get back to my game plan. "Besides, you can't just shirk off your duties. Not if you want to complete your thesis and be a Stanford business graduate."

She has told me in her effusive emails and on our phone calls that this is her dream job and that she is learning so much that will help her launch her own fashion empire in a few years. I hear her start to argue, "But…"

I quickly add, cutting her off, "Not if you want to continue working there _after_ your graduate."

I feel her mulling this over and I realize something: I don't have to get what I want, what I need, by doing this Em's way—all Southern cajoling and finagling—I can assert my will in my own plain-spoken way. Right?

"Em, I need this," I beseech. "I need to be both The Controller and The Coordinator today," I say, invoking two of the most commonly-used nicknames I've given her.

"You do? You're sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Okaaay. I don't get it, why you wouldn't want my help and all, but…" she trails off because this is new for her; I would've capitulated long before now. Plus, I get the feeling that I might have hurt her feelings a little. Emory _needs _to be needed. I can't let that stop me, though. She pipes up, "Let me at least send the car to pick you up and take you to Henry's."

"Once The Coordinator, always The Coordinator," I snort, knowing that she means well. "But I'm already here, Em."

She knows immediately. "You walked!" she exclaims, scandalized. "You walked through New York City in the dark!" I don't answer her, but smile to myself. "You don't have the brains you were born with, Elle! You don't know enough to come in out of the rain! You're one step short of…"

She has a hundred of these so I talk right over her to shut her down. "It's not dark anymore." Well, not really. "Bye, Em! Call or come over when you're done with work!" I hang up, smiling at her Southern insults, which all translate to _extra stupid, _the words I used on Bea last night. A lifetime ago, it seems.

I put my phone away, pleased with myself for this new assertion of my own will. I find I am standing in front of the entrance to the building with a vague memory of standing in this same place yesterday in a fog, not knowing what to do. But not now, not today. I square my shoulders and step through the sliding doors.

I am ready.

When I step off the elevator and walk toward the fifth floor desk, I am surprised to see a brown-haired woman with a kind face, maybe just a little older than me, look up and smile at me in recognition. Like she knows me. "Well hello again, Miss Ellis!"

I stare at her blankly. It is only when I get closer that I notice her pink scrub top has dancing band aids and stethoscopes and things on it and it triggers a blurry vision of tripping onto an elevator. Gosh, was that only hours ago?

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name last night."

"You had other things on your mind. I'm Angela. I watch over Mr. Ellis at night." She says this with such compassion in her brown eyes that I want to reach across the desk and hug her. Instead, I find a smile and hold out my hand.

"Thank you so much. I'm Ellawyn, but everyone calls me Elle. Or Ellie. Or Ella or whatever." I shrug at my rambling introduction as she shakes my hand.

"Well, Ellawyn, I'm sure we'll see you around here a lot. We like to have loved ones around to help our patients with their rehabilitation. Why don't you go on back." She motions with her head toward Henry's room.

"Thank you again. For yesterday," I say before slowly heading down the hallway. I feel a bit sheepish that I didn't recognize her, but then I think back and I can't picture the faces of any customs agent, flight attendant, row mate, or anyone I saw since I left China: if they were in a lineup, I couldn't point to a one of them.

I think back to what Em said at the airport, about my not speaking English. And I realize that since I talked to Em on the phone in Wuhan, when she called to tell me about Henry, I didn't speak English once the whole trip, until I was in Henry's room with Em. I spoke Japanese to Professor Gardner and Mandarin to Mr. and Mrs. Song, Professor Zhang-Lei and the ticket and gate agents in China. I might've nodded to the ones at SFO airport, I'm not even sure. And a tiny bit of Arabic to that nice man on the plane. But no English. Weird.

I start to feel foggy again and I can't remember what room Henry's in. Shaking it off—that won't do!—I look at each number I pass, hoping I'll know it when I see it. Ahh…511. Here it is. I open the door and walk in to find my sleeping grandfather, just where I left him last night.

I am shocked all over again at how…_small_ he seems. I don't go to Henry, yet, but just stand, watching, checking to see he's breathing. My nascent determination and will, gathered during the walk here, crashes hard against the vision in front of me. Now I almost wish I'd allowed Emory to come with me. No, who I'm really pining for, yearning for, is my grandmother; practical, capable, lovely and loving, Rosamunde. She'd know what to do.

I touch the battered leather of her old messenger bag, handed down to me when she died. It's still around my neck. I can picture her with it walking in London, Istanbul, Bilbao, Ottawa, Addis Ababa, Philly, so stylish and graceful, not unlike Emory. I lift it off my shoulders, putting it on one of the chairs and then open the flap to retrieve the candy and card from Professor Gardner. I look around the room to find a place to put them and see that there is one very beautiful flower arrangement sitting on a table by the windows. I hadn't noticed it last night through my fog. I place the stuff from the Gardners next to the vase and pull off the card I see sticking out of the top of the flowers. Of course it's from Emory and her whole family, The Buchanans, all of whom know Henry. But there are no other flowers or cards or anything. And Henry has a _lot _of friends. Maybe no one has told them about his stroke, just like no one told me initially. Something else to ask Bea about.

I walk to Henry's bedside, automatically reaching for his hand, but I don't want to wake him, so I let my arm drop. I want to see for myself if his internal clock is still ticking, if he'll wake up at seven on his own, just like he always has. I check my watch before moving to the end of his bed and I keep a vigil, watching him breathe.

Henry's eyes blink open and I paste on a smile as his eyes slowly find mine. Yep, it's seven. My smile slips though, when I see him look at me in something like shock. This is a repeat of last night as his mouth gapes open and unintelligible sounds spill out. I cannot understand anything and the frustration of it is maddening—for both of us; I can see it in his eyes, too. I walk to the side of his bed and take his hand.

"G, I'm going to be here all day. All the days." Rather than easing his vexation, it increases. The sounds he's making are louder, more agitated. "We'll deal with all this and you'll get better." I keep talking.

My inane chatter abruptly stops as a nurse walks in after a brisk knock on the door. I quickly introduce myself, grateful for the distraction from both Henry's and my frustration. "Nice to meet you, I'm Lauren." She nods across the room. "Are you ready for your bath?" she asks Henry. Not waiting for an answer, she walks to his bed, all brisk efficiency.

I try for humor and look to Henry with mock horror on my face. "Whoa! I am so not sticking around for that!" His frustration is replaced with a kind of smile, albeit a half-hearted misshapen one. I release his hand and step away from the bed as the nurse takes my place, lifting the covers off him, exposing an awful hospital gown. "I'll be right outside," I say, as I move toward the door.

But I don't leave all the way, I stand in the doorway watching as she helps him stand and move toward the bathroom. He is leaning on her, heavily. Clearly, this is a lot of work for him, for both of them. When I can't stand to watch this painstaking shuffle any longer, I go out to the hallway and pace.

When this woman—Lauren, I've got to remember her name—comes out from Henry's room, with a chirpy, "All done!" I go back in to see his bed is adjusted so he's sitting up.

Another woman comes in holding a metal tray. "Good morning, Mr. Ellis. Breakfast!" We both watch her put the tray on a small nearby table, wheeling it over and swiveling it so it's over his lap on the bed. She opens a small carton of milk, pouring it over a bowl of cereal, before breezing out again.

I watch Henry stare at the tray in front of him with the cereal, plus a boiled egg and toast and tea on it. He looks at it, then up at me, with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Do you need help?" I ask, unsure.

He shakes his head.

"Aren't you hungry?"

He nods, looking a bit…sheepish, maybe? I'm at a total loss.

He makes no move to start eating, just looking at me, before dropping his eyes. And it hits me…he doesn't want to eat in front of me. This is new. Henry eats with gusto anywhere, anytime.

"Um…I'm going to go find some coffee, okay? While you eat." I walk out, so, so despondent. I lean against the wall just outside his door, where Henry can't see, watching the hustle and bustle of the all these caretakers starting their morning routines, coming in and out of the various other rooms.

Grandfather, sheepish, listless, is brand new and breaks my heart. He hasn't even tried to talk since his stream of unintelligible words right when he first woke up, just shaking and nodding his head. Why in the world did I think I could handle all this? Why did I not want Emory and Bea with me today, the two people alive I'm closest to, not counting Grandfather, of course?

I close my eyes, pining for my grandmother, feeling sorry for both Henry and myself that she isn't here. I put my hand over my wristwatch—an ancient thing she wore all the time, handed down to me, like the messenger bag was when she died—and talk to her in my mind. _What do I do to help Henry? What do I do, G.M.? _I swear I can smell her perfume in the hallway as I invoke one of the nicknames I gave her, a derivative of Grandmother that Henry took and ran with, morphing it into General Manager, because she was the G.M. of all our lives.

I don't know how long I stand like this, slumped against the wall, whining to myself, but my eyes fly open when I hear, "Are you Miss Ellis?"

Standing in front of me in the hall is a vaguely handsome man in a white coat, holding a manila file. He has a fake orange tan and silver streaked through his brown hair. His whole look screams _doctor._

"Yes." This comes out as a croak before I find my voice. "Yes, I'm

Ellawayn, Henry's granddaughter."

"I received a note that you wanted to talk to me." He pointedly looks at his own watch as if he's got more important places to be. "I'm Dr. Grange," he says with barely contained indifference.

I let go of my grandmother's watch—I was still holding on to it, trying to channel Rosamunde—to shake his limp hand. "Yes, I wanted to find out everything I can about my granddad's stroke. And therapy."

He opens the file in his hand, but doesn't say anything back for a moment, flipping through the pages.

_Okaaay, _I think.

"I see here that a Ms. Schmidt is his primary contact person. I'll have to get Mr. Ellis's permission first before I can talk to you about his care." This is accompanied by a supercilious smile.

My ire is up immediately. "Well, let's go ask him then." I turn and go into Henry's door, bristling. In less than a minute, I already dislike him.

I see that Henry has finished his breakfast, the boiled egg and toast are gone, and as I wheel the table off to the side, taking its place by Henry, I pretend not to see that most of the cereal has ended up on his chest and lap.

Dr. _Grinch_—this nickname's just too easy—starts to say something, but I hold up my hand in the universal hang-on-a-minute sign, or better yet, the talk-to-the-hand sign, shushing him in what I'm sure is sort of a rude gesture and say, directly to Henry, "Grandfather, Aunt Bea is the only one on your contact list and this man seems to need your permission to talk to me about your rehab and care. Is that okay?"

Henry looks between me and the doctor, bemused, maybe almost wondrous, although I don't have any kind of read on his post-stroke expressions. But it does seem as if he's actually engaged and _present _for the first time since I've been here. He nods.

Dr. Grinch, trying to take control of this process, jumps in. "Mr. Ellis, we take patient confidentiality seriously here, so I'll need to get your okay for now, but then I might suggest you add Miss Ellis here," he looks at me all pompously, "officially, as one of your contacts."

Henry nods.

Yet another person, a young man, bustles into the room, pushing a wheelchair, calling out, "Ready to rumble, Mr. Ellis?" He stops short when he sees Dr. Grinch, but then continues into the room, smiling widely at Henry. He has a vague Caribbean New York accent, latte skin and short curly hair. I peg him as Dominican American. Maybe half, at least.

Grinch says, "This is one of our esteemed motor skills specialists, Mr. Shad Craig," he says this, subtly emphasizing the "Mr." as in, "not a doctor like me," in such a way that he means anything but "esteemed."

I shake this new guy's hand, liking his positive effervescence immediately. It is seeing the difference between Shad and the doctor that makes me know I don't want the Grinch anywhere near my grandfather right now. More so when the doctor says to Shad, "You don't have to come get the patients yourself. We have orderlies for that."

"Yeah, but Mr. Ellis is special!" he says as he winks at Henry. Even though my grandfather is indeed special, I actually hope he says that to every patient.

I lean down to kiss Granddad's forehead, whispering, "I'll leave you to it while I go talk to Dr. Grinch, okay?"

A momentary sparkle in Henry's eyes tells me he caught the nickname.

"Let's go out in the hall, shall we?" I say with a tight smile as I pass the Grinch on the way out, not waiting for an answer.

As I'm walking out the door, behind me I hear the doctor say, disdainfully, "Shad, make sure to get Mr. Ellis cleaned up first, he's got cereal all over him."

Oh no he didn't! I squeeze my eyes tightly together. I feel awful for Granddad. After Henry was already too abashed to eat in front of me, this man, this _doctor_, who surely deals with stroke patients all the time, just shamed him anew. A wave of protectiveness overtakes me and I do something I've only done once in my life, the first time being last night with Aunt Bea; I yell at someone. Only this time, I do it with rather less volume.

"Could you be any more patronizing?" I blurt out, but in a low voice so Henry doesn't hear, the second he has joined me outside Henry's room.

For a moment, the doctor looks shocked, dumbstruck, but tries to regain the upper hand again. "Don't you have parents with whom I can talk?"

His question back is both a sucker punch to the gut and an affirmative answer to my rhetorical question.

When I get my breath back, I say, slowly, almost nonchalantly, "They would be here, I'm sure…but they're _dead._" Dios mio! I've never wielded my parents' death like a weapon and it pains me to do so. But I can't let that stop me. Looking him right in the eye, I'm glad to see I seemed to have derailed his bluster. For the moment. I quietly yell, "So you will be dealing with _me_, and let me tell you right now thatyour bedside manner is deplorable! Do you always bully at-risk patients, people at the worst time in their lives, or did I just happen to catch you on a bad day?" I keep going, thinking of Henry's humiliation and the fact that this doctor brought up my parents. His being a jackass has wiped out any lingering sense of unease in how to handle this. "Do I need to request you to be replaced, or are you going to treat my grandfather with some semblance of respect in this dire time?"

My eyes still blazing at him, I watch cracks appear in his disdainful shell; I can see it happening before me. I really just want to dismiss his sorry ass, but I need information. He seems mute with shock.

Good! Well…except for the fact that I need information from him.

I take a deep breath. "Now…I want to know everything about my grandfather's stroke. What meds he's on, what progress you've seen. What we can expect in his rehabilitation. Everything." I wait. The seconds tick by.

He looks down, chastened, and opens the file he's holding. "I am in charge of the medical portion of his care while he's an inpatient. Shad…er, Mr. Craig…can talk to you in detail about his rehabilitation program. Right now, he's still on a blood thinner medication called…" and he goes on, stopping only when I ask him questions, which he answers quickly, and completely, I think. I understand this awful process a bit better now.

When it seems as if I've gotten everything I can from him, I say, "Thank you for the information. I won't keep you any longer, Dr. Grinch."

Oh, merde! I said his nickname out loud. My eyes go wide as his eyebrows knit together. His face changes. He looks pissed and I don't need an enemy of Henry's medical doctor. But then he does something that shocks the hell right out of me: he throws back his head and he barks out a laugh. He laughs!

I press my lips together, tightly, but I can't help it. I can't! I start giggling. Dr. Grinch, his face now red, folds at the waist, putting his hands on his knees, laughing. He tilts his head up to look at me and my giggles turn to full on laughter. I clutch my arms around my middle, squench my eyes shut against the tears of mirth. I open them to see some of the caretakers in the hallway, including the one I just met, Lauren, staring in horror. This does not help. We both keep laughing.

When it starts to peter out, Dr. Grinch does something else that shocks the hell out of me—he reaches right out and pulls me into a hug. I'm too flummoxed to hug him back. When he releases me, he reaches into the pocket of his white coat and hands me a business card.

"Call me any time you have questions." And with that, he wipes the wetness from his eyes, and turns on his heel down the hall, chuckling.

I watch him go and it takes me several minutes of shaking before I can move. The bustle in the hall has returned to normal. I clutch Rosamunde's watch, swearing that I can smell her perfume again.

Okaaaay…What the hell was that! After a few more deep breaths, I reenter Henry's room.

For the rest of the morning, I follow Henry to the various rehab departments, watching Shad's patient, careful and encouraging ministrations, taking mental note of everything they do. Some of these machines they work on look like high-tech torture devices. There are a succession of other rehab specialists who work with Henry, so when Shad takes a break before working with another patient, I ply him with questions. I find out that they do all kinds of rehab therapy here, not just for strokes, both on an inpatient and outpatient basis. Henry is an inpatient right now, but when he's well enough to go home, he can still do his therapy here as an outpatient. Shad can't really give me a time-frame for when he'll be ready. In addition to the motor skills part of therapy, there is also how he responds to the drugs he's on. That's Dr. Grinch's area. As for Shad's field, he says it depends on a lot of criteria and that, "We'll know it when we see it."

I'm going to do what I can to hurry that knowing along.

When I ask Shad about speech therapy, because surely they have that here for stroke rehabilitation, he confirms that they do indeed have it, only Henry has refused to partake in that component of rehab.

_Huh?_

I am absolutely mystified by this; language is Henry's _thing. _Surely he'd want to do everything he can to get that back. I file that bit of info away to deal with later. I tell Shad about Henry's multitude of languages and he is astounded by this. I was hoping that Shad might speak Spanish—one of Henry's languages—but although his mother is indeed Dominican, he never learned more than a few words.

Somewhere along the way, I notice that Henry is wearing what I think are hospital-issue thin top and pants and some broken down slippers that I know are his. I smile to myself, knowing that Emory would've noticed this sartorial lapse immediately had she been watching his rehab exercises, and she's just the one to give me advice on how to remedy it.

I text my personal fashion queen. _Where should I go to get Henry some rockin' warm-up suits for his rehab exercise regimen? And while we're at it, some great pajamas and maybe a robe and slippers? And sneakers—size ten._

Her text back is almost immediate. _Pulease. This is so mine to do. I'll take care of it._

_Bless you, my great and wonderful Coordinator! But I'm going to pay for everything. (Just, you know, make it Ella-priced, not Emory-priced, okay?) _Emory is from a very wealthy and very indulgent, old Southern family; she did not grow up on a civil servant's salary like I did.

She does not answer.

After an exhausting day of newness, Henry and I have the TV on and are resting in the early evening, waiting for his dinner, when I hear yet another voice of someone bustling into the room. This time with a chirpy, "Dinner is served!"

But this is a voice I know and it fills me with gladness. Bea breezes in, laden with bags, one of which is padded like the delivery people use to keep food warm. She places that on one of the tables, pulling out a covered casserole dish that fills the room with a wonderful smell.

"Tonight's menu is chicken, broccoli and rice." She pulls out dinnerware, bottled water, bread and butter from another bag before taking off her long coat to hang in the closet by the door. She has a wild maroon and green printed caftan on underneath it that looks good with her coloring. I have no idea where she gets these things—online, maybe.

"Nice housedress," I say, sarcastically.

She looks over her shoulder while putting the dinner together and says directly to Grandfather, "I don't think one should be snarky if one wants to partake of this deliciousness. What do you think, Henry?"

"Gosh, I was just giving her a compliment, Granddad." I smile, rolling my eyes dramatically.

I am heartened to see that he is grinning a little, pleased, I think, by Bea's and my usual repartee. I want to kiss her face for bringing about this expression on Henry's and even more so when she wheels that over-the-bed serving table to him and I see that it is perfectly laid out with a cloth napkin, fork, a piece of bread already buttered, a bit of some kind of green salad to the side, and even the bottled water has been poured into a crystal highball.

"You, Miss Snarkypants, who wouldn't know a brilliant piece of wearable artwork if it bit her, can go get your own!" she says to me airily.

To say Bea is a good cook is a bit of a misnomer. She pretty much only ever bakes; even her blintzes, whose crepe covering should traditionally be cooked over a stove first before being filled, are made entirely in the oven. As she has said plenty of times, "Baking is just a more elegant way of cooking." Her stovetop is rarely used, but I've never tasted anything but straight up food divinity from her, regardless of how she makes it.

I practically leap over to where she put everything, piling my plate with her casserole, salad and bread. I thought we were waiting for a hospital meal for Henry and I was planning to go down to the cafeteria when they brought it, but this is so much better.

I wince. Oh, Dios mio!…How are we going to handle Granddad not wanting to eat in front of anyone?

"We're not watching news while we eat, too uncivilized." I turn around to see Bea has scooted two chairs near the foot of Henry's bed, facing away from him. She is in one of them, jabbing the remote control toward the TV. "Come help me find some old movie, Snarkypoo, but none of that foreign language stuff you like!"

Relief floods through me as I go sit in the chair next to her, playing along. "Ha! I happen to know that your second all-time favorite movie is French!"

Before I pick up my fork, I reach over and squeeze her hand.


	5. Chapter 5

_**4…The Plan**_

I am wandering around The Rambler while Bea puts the dishes from the rehab meal away in her apartment, and Em gets settled in the yellow guest room next to my bedroom.

Em got to the rehab center after Henry was already asleep, carrying a bag from an expensive store that had in it a beautiful dove grey cashmere warm-up suit, t-shirts, cashmere socks, and soft matching slip-on sneakers. Clearly, none of it is Ella-priced. The rest, she had said ominously, is due to come later in the week. I figure I'll deal with paying her back for it later; I've used up all my new-found will for the day and I imagine there's going to be an argument about it.

"Bea, look at this," I point when I hear her come up behind me in the hallway, Petal trailing her. I run my finger along the top of a wooden frame holding a photo of Henry bowling with some laughing Buddhist monks, all in their saffron and curry robes. When I hold up my dust-covered finger, Bea shudders. "This is not just two weeks' worth of dust."

We both look down the long hall at the dozens of other photos and paintings hanging on the wall; they are all dusty. Emory joins us as I say, "And come in here."

I lead them to our massive black and white kitchen where there are dishes piled in the sink, and a dirty pan on our vintage chrome and brass stove. The kitchen island has a huge pile of mail on it. I didn't notice any of this last night, or this morning I guess it was, in my altered state.

"Look. It's a mess. I won't have time to clean up for a while what with Henry's rehab schedule. Or maybe I can do it little by little every night." The thought of starting tonight exhausts me—this place is just too huge.

"Come on, let's go sit in the living room." I can hear the revulsion in Bea's voice. I look around the kitchen again, then follow them out.

"When Zahrahi retired, I know she gave Henry a referral for someone to take over." I say, coming into the living room. Zahrahi was our longtime housekeeper who retired to Nevada to be close to her son and his family. We had her going away party here the last time I was home over Christmas break. "Do you know if he ever called her?"

"By the looks of things, he never did," she replies, her eyes moving around the room filled with a mishmash of furniture and textiles and mementos from all over the world. Unlike Bea's apartment, there is a cacophony of color and pattern _everywhere; _it looks like a global bazaar.

Bea, Petal and Emory sit on one of the sofas as I fall into a chair upholstered in an antique suzani fabric that Grandmother had picked up in Uzbekistan. A little cloud of dust poofs up from the chair, illustrating Bea's point.

Em, who has been unusually quiet, pipes up, "And the whole…vibe feels weird, doesn't it? Like it's empty."

Our apartment has never been as pristine as Bea's—whose is?—but it's always been clean and…so…_lively; _people, friends, coming and going all the time, parties and dinners here, overnight guests as often as not. It does not feel that way now.

"Speaking of empty, does anyone else know he's had a stroke?" I ask Bea. "He's got thousands of friends and only one flower arrangement and card in his room at The Rehab." I turn to Em adding, "Thank you, by the way, for sending it. It's beautiful, of course."

Em nods in reply.

Bea answers, "How would he let them know, when he can't really talk? Plus, I don't think he's been as social lately as he usually was. _Is_," she corrects herself.

Speaking of which…I take a deep breath.

"That reminds me, if he can't talk, how did you know Henry didn't want me to know that he had a stroke?"

"That's sort of complicated," she says, clearly uneasy, shifting on the sofa.

"I can handle complicated, thank you very much." But as I say it, I'm not altogether sure I can. I'm exhausted after all this day of newness. Of rehab. Of complications. Of quietly yelling at a doctor, for heaven's sakes!

She says with a sigh, "He'd mentioned after he came back from visiting you in Palo Alto that if he got sick, he wanted you to stay there and be a student. Made me promise not to tell if anything happened to him."

"And you a_greed _to that!?" Bea is looking anywhere but at me. I know there's more to the story, but I don't have the wherewithal to dig it out of her right now. I just don't.

Em interjects, "I would never promise something so inane."

"And that is why you, Emory Clare Buchanan, are my best friend," I say to her, before turning back to Bea with, "I know you don't come over here very often." She loves Henry, but practically _worshipped _my grandmother. After Rosamunde died, Bea told me it makes her too sad being here. "But do you know what Henry's been up to lately?"

Bea gets a discomfited look on her face, probably thinking about the grime. "How about you let me take care of getting it clean. And if you get me Zahrahi's cousin or niece or whomever's phone number, I'll call her and set up her coming regularly."

"You've already done enough," I say sardonically with dual meaning, but I can't really be angry at her. Bea told us on the way back that she had consulted with the rehab nutritionist about Henry's diet so she could make his dinners every night. There was flax seed flour in the bread and quinoa and brown rice in the casserole.

"I cannot have this dust trap remain right across the hall from my living space," she says haughtily. "So, don't think about it again. This is for purely for me!" I know what she's doing and I am grateful for it.

"Then I'll take care of Petal's last walk for the night," I jump up from my chair. Petal tilts her head up when she hears her name and the trigger word, "walk."

"Take your phone with you!" they both say at the same time.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Come on Petal girl!" I grab her leash from its hook by the door.

Really, walking Petal is less a favor to Bea and more because I need another Walkabout. With Em staying here, there's probably no chance she'll let me walk to The Rehab tomorrow morning without an argument and I dearly need to process what I learned from today.

As for Henry trying to keep this from me, I figure I'll talk to him about it when he can actually talk. I put that to the side, contemplating further just how I will get Henry talking again.

For one, Henry is a veritable master communicator and right now he can't and won't talk, aside from when he tried right when he first woke up. Two, he did everything else Shad and the other specialists asked him to do, aside from the language therapy, but he did it all listlessly—the only times he exhibited anything remotely close to his usual sparkle were when I was having my Main Line Philly moment with Dr. Grinch, and when Bea and I were hanging out in the evening. And even that was a tenuous thing. And three…I'm not sure what three is yet, but I _will_ figure it out.

With each meandering block Petal and I walk through Chinatown, the pieces of a multi-tiered plan form to get Henry back to himself—back to _me_. I need more information, though, and will continue to follow Henry around during his rehab for the rest of the week, deciding that I'll start enacting one part of this nascent plan tomorrow, with Saturday being the big surprise day, for which I will need both Bea's and Emory's help.

There! Now that my Walkabout business has concluded for tonight and Petal's completed her business, I hurry back to The Rambler to get their input.

After Bea has taken Petal back to her apartment and Em has gone yawning to her room after planning with me, I find I can't sleep. Part of the insomnia is that China time still has a dogged hold on me, but I think a lot of it is the excitement of the impending Plan for Henry.

I've carefully chosen books from the library shelves, linens from the closet, photos from the hall, and a couple colorful antique prayer rugs from the floor. I've put all these on or near the coffee table, moving Professor Zhang-Lei's bag and its contents to my room. Em had noticed the bag earlier while in the living room and commented that it was absolutely beautiful, which had reminded me to give her the card from the Gardner's son, Jerry.

It was then that she told me with a starry-eyed smile she had met someone at a party—a nice English boy—and couldn't wait for me to meet him. He is due to move here as he is just about to finish his MBA at Penn. I'd told her that as soon as we got Henry squared away, I'd be glad to.

After washing the dishes, I set my alarm and get into bed, hopeful.

The next morning, upon waking, I decide I do need another Walkabout to clear my head, to get ready for the first part of The Plan and possibly fine tune it. So after quietly showering and getting dressed in a bathroom further down the hall, I put a few of the books I chose last night into my messenger bag, along with a pair of Henry's reading glasses, and sneak out of the apartment, Em still asleep. When I step onto the dark sidewalk outside our building, I stop short.

There is a town car idling, with the driver…what was his name?...oh yeah, Marco!...leaning against the fender. When he sees me, he jumps up to open the rear passenger door.

"Good morning, Miss Ellis. Miss Buchanan has requested I take you up to the rehab center."

Damn!

"Mr. Marco, can't I just walk and let this be our little secret?" I try for some Em cajoling.

"Miss Buchanan did mention you might say exactly that," he replies nodding. "But may I say, Miss Ellis, that the Buchanans are very good to me." His eyes are almost pleading. He gestures to the open door.

I get in the car without another word. I don't even feel guilty that this must be costing her a fortune.

The Controller strikes again.

Henry waking is a repeat of the last two times. I am at the foot of his bed, watching him and he talks upon first opening his eyes—garbled words I don't understand—and then settles into that spiritless quiet. The same nurse, Lauren, comes into his room for his bath and I give her the bag with the warm-up suit from Em to dress him in afterwards. I pace outside, gathering courage, mentally channeling my grandmother. When Lauren comes out in the hall, I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and go back into Henry's room.

The back of the bed is raised so he is sitting up on it, pointing at his upper left chest, with a smile on his face. I get a case of the giggles immediately. Em didn't show me this last night, but she had the warm-up suit top embroidered with the letters "O.G." one of Henry's nicknames. It stands for "Original Grandfather," derived from Original Gangster, a rap nickname from Bea. The Coordinator strikes again. When I can, finally, get control of my ridiculous giggles, I nervously begin phase one of the Plan.

"Today is a new day, O.G." I try for a sober, commanding countenance, but I really can't keep the smile off my face, seeing Henry's pleased look. "And, from this day forward—this _moment _forward, actually—there will be no more nodding and shaking of your head."

I falter when I see the smile drop from Henry's face, but I press on. "Um…yeah, so…uh…from here on out, you will use your words. Okay?" I take a breath. "I don't care what language, but you…Will. Use. Your. Words." Another breath. "Do you understand me?" Gulp!

I cannot place the expression on Grandfather's face. Shock, maybe? But he slowly nods his head, his lips pursed. I turn my head and eyes to the side, away from him, looking over my right shoulder theatrically.

"I can't hear you," I say in a singsong voice. I wait a moment, but whip my eyes back around in alarm when I hear a strangled sound from Henry. His shoulders and head are bent down and I wonder if he's choking. I run to his side. "Are you okay? Are you okay?"

Crap, what have I done! Maybe this is too soon.

Merde alors!

I reach my hands over to push his shoulders back against the upright bed. He clutches his middle. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!

I lift his chin up, his eyes are wrenched shut. "Henry! Granddad!" Ohmigod, should I call the nurse? His eyes flutter open and it takes me a moment to get it.

Henry is laughing. Henry is laughing, hard. Almost like the doctor was yesterday. What the hell?

"Jeez, Granddad!" I sink down on the bed next to him, all my limbs pure jelly as the panic ebbs away. "What the…You scared the caca out of me!"

When I can move my arms again, I reach over and hug him hard, not letting go until his shoulders stop shaking and I hear him hiccup out of his laughter.

I pull back, wanting to get back on track.

"So…" I say, softer this time. "Are we clear? You'll use your words?" I will not be deterred by the mirth in his bright hazel eyes.

Henry croaks out a sound through his smile that at first I think is a "No."

"Perdon?" I say acerbically in Spanish, raising my eyebrow.

He says it again and I finally get it.

He said, "Na'am." Arabic for "Yes."

"Mon petit malin," I use a French phrase for "wiseass," rolling my eyes in mock consternation. I get up from the bed, turning away to hide my crowing smile. Step one accomplished!

I tell all of his caretakers and nurses and rehab specialists throughout the day that Henry will be speaking from here on out and not to let him get away with any nonverbal language. I say this right in front of him; too bad if it's a bit on the patronizing side. A part of me feels guilty that it's not all that different from the doctor's patronization yesterday. Luckily, though, he seems to find this all absolutely _hilarious. _I have no idea why, but hey…I'll take it!

During the late afternoon pre-dinner rest time, I start Phase Two. Henry did pretty well during the day, even if the only words he used were a rasping Yes and No. Still, I'm kind of nervous. I go to his closet, where I've stored the books I brought, cheekily choosing a slim leather-bound volume of Shakespeare's King Henry the Sixth. I take the book to Henry who is sitting up on his bed, "I thought you could read aloud. Start here, if you don't mind."

I point to where I'd marked a passage with a post-it, pretending not to see his look of horrified dismay. Instead, I flip on the TV to some frivolous sitcom, just for the sound, then scoot a chair over to the end of his bed where Bea and I sat last night. I sit, facing the TV.

When I don't hear anything, I turn around toward Henry and say over my shoulder in that same singsong voice I used earlier, "I don't hear you!"

He smugly says what might be, "Can't," making a motion to his eyes.

"Oh right" I say, getting up and going to my bag, where I pull out his reading glasses and then place them right on his nose. "Good thing I remembered these, isn't it!" I say, chirpily, but underneath, I'm tensing up.

He does not look happy. I sit back in the chair and further turn up the volume on the TV, hoping that it will help with any chagrin he might feel in reading aloud. I close my eyes and wait, holding my breath.

Finally, I hear behind me a rough, rasping sound. I can't make out the words, particularly, but I picked some volumes whose lines I know at least somewhat. I did this so I could immerse myself in his post-stroke language; so I could learn it. Because I think—I _know_—the key to Henry getting well is for him to be able to communicate.

Concentrating hard, I can just make out the strangled words, barely. It sounds like, "R'mb lahs yah ahs ta H'y swahn…" but I know it is "Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn, either to quell the Dauphin utterly, or bring him in obedience to your yoke." I key into his slow, painstaking words, using the language part of my brain, comparing his sounds to the words I know. He only gets to, "Each hath his place and function to attend," before Bea comes in with dinner, strangely illustrating the last line. I put the book away and whisk the glasses off his nose.

Okay, it's a start.

The rest of the week continues the same way, Bea brings dinner, Em, a new outfit for Henry—this is totally getting out of hand!—and I change out the texts; last night I had him read Professor Gardner's get well card out loud before moving on to some ancient Sufi poetry Henry is fond of.

On Saturday morning, I replay these past few days in my mind, looking to find any markers of progress as I subdue the urge to shake Henry awake before seven, so excited for him to get his surprise. Probably the only thing that stops me is that he still has to complete his morning routine and exercise schedule first, so getting him up earlier won't hurry it along. Saturday, Shad had told me, is a lighter rehab day, ending early, with tomorrow being an entire day of rest. I'm trying to figure out something fun to do tomorrow with Henry when his eyes blink open, eyebrows furrowed in confusion when he sees me standing at the end of his bed.

And just like every other morning, a flurry of agitated and garbled words spills out of his mouth. "P'ul? P'ul?"

I concentrate, listening hard, and I can almost feel something click in my brain. I know! I know what he's trying to say. Petal! He's saying "Petal," my grandmother's nickname.

"No! Not Petal. I'm your granddaughter, Ellawyn. Not Rosamunde!"

His eyes seem to blink off the confusion. I wait.

"Dre," Henry says.

I silently mull over this sound. Another click.

"Dream? You were dreaming of Grandmother?"

He nods, sadness in his eyes. "Guh dre'."

"Good dream?" Another nod. "I dream about her a lot, too, Granddad." And I don't care if this is mean, but I add emphatically, "You don't get to see Rosamunde for a long time." I walk around the bed to his side, picking up his hand, squeezing it. "You're staying here with me."

We stay like that until Henry's face changes from sadness to what I think is humor as he pulls his hand out of my grasp, placing it on my cheek. "Doo'."

At first I think he's saying, "Duh," or maybe _Da, _Russian for "yes," but then I get it. He's saying the word I picked up when I went away to California; a word that I brought home with me and spread to Grandmother and Henry both, infecting our household like a virus. After Bea picked it up, too, Grandmother banned the use of this word from the premises, which only served to make all four of us say it more.

I repeat it, "Yeah…Dude."

He says again, "Doo'."

A sad smile. "Dude."

_This_ is my grandfather! _This_ is the Henry who loves all forms of language, even the virulent words! When I told him on that same visit that a lot of the kids at school were saying, "craptastic," he thought it was the most delightful thing he'd ever heard. Same with "asshat" and "jackhole." Grandmother not so much. She never let those words get a leg up in our house, but she was powerless against the sublime beauty of "dude." I bet Henry, like me, is remembering this right now. The sadness in him is replaced by amusement and we're repeating it over and over again. And this is how a new nurse I don't know finds us—giggling like idiots—when she comes in after a quick knock on the door.

"Bath, sir?"

Shad and I are alongside Henry, who is painstakingly using a walker, slowly making our way down the fifth floor hallway to his room after his morning exercises. When we passed the front desk a few minutes ago, all the staff there gave me none-too-subtle smiling nods and knowing looks, but thankfully Grandfather didn't notice. His concentration was fully on using the walker for the first time, rather than the usual wheelchair back from the exercise room.

Near Henry's end of the hall, there are five or six other of his caretakers lurking, pretending to do busywork at various carts, some theatrically perusing clipboards. Sheesh! None of them would make good spies, I think, as I smilingly roll my eyes at them. When we're at his room, I scurry in first, practically leaping to a waiting Bea and Em. I giddily grab their hands, then turn to face the door. I want to see his expression. In what feels like ten minutes, but it's probably not ten seconds, Henry comes into view in the doorway, head down, intent on his walker. Shad and now a bevy of nurses peer in behind him.

"O.G." I say softly. "Look up!" Henry raises his head, his eyes traveling around the room, mouth falling open. Bea and Em have outdone themselves. While Henry and I were at rehab, they've transformed his room.

The privacy curtains around his bed, formerly hung with boring hospital fabric, are now draped in a colorful African cloth from Cameroon. His bed is covered in a bright star-patterned quilt that Grandmother had made herself, with matching pillow shams. His bed linens are now 600-thread count Egyptian cotton. Over his bed is an abstract primitive painting of the globe, with angel wings enfolding it.

There is an extendable table by the window with a colorful Bulgarian tablecloth on it, set with four formal china place settings. Surrounding it are three gold Chippendale folding chairs that Grandmother used to bring out for larger dinner parties at The Rambler. In addition to those is Henry's favorite beat up old club chair from the study.

Above the window blinds is a bunting of Tibetan prayer flags. On the window sill are stacks of Henry's favorite books and DVDs, as well as stand-up picture frames holding various family photos including one of Rosamunde and me, Em and me at Stanford, and an ancient black and white one of his late parents.

The walls are hung with other photos I pulled from our hallway gallery—all of them carefully chosen to remind Henry of his place in this wide world he loves so much.

Henry giggling with Desmond Tutu, somehow they both look like naughty little boys; surrounded by adoring students at one of the seminars he taught at the University of Geneva, and another doing some sort of green shots at a Philly bar with students from his time lecturing at Penn; dancing with abandon with Boris Yeltsin; photo bombing Zbigniew Brzezinski and Cyrus Vance at Leeds Castle in the 70's—I swear he invented photo bombing long before it became a _thing_; heads bent together in intimate conversation with Anwar Sadat; pensive with Golda Meir; with Rosamunde, Averill and Pamela Harriman outside a French country house; gazing at the night sky with Neil deGrasse Tyson and a younger me; squinting against the sunlight with Kofi Annan on that big circle in front of the U.N. building; with arms around Rosamunde and Tawakel Karmen in Yemen; another with Thatcher and other British diplomats. And some of my favorites—that one of him bowling with those Buddhist monks; and one of him from the back, strolling down a garden path in Dallas with his great friend and mentor, the late Argentinian Catholic priest and biblical scholar, Professor Enrique Nardoni. In this one, I am maybe six, trailing behind them, my hands clasped behind my back mirroring theirs. My grandmother took a lot of these photos.

Scattered on the floor at the foot of his bed, under the table and in front of the sink are small Persian and Turkish rugs—I may have to take those up if he's going to use the walker more—and there are flowers everywhere. Everything is bathed in a soft light from a couple floor and desk lamps placed strategically around the room. As much as it can, this room looks like an international bazaar—like Henry, like Rosamunde, like home.

And to top it all off…the kicker?…From an i-Pod dock on a bedside table, my brilliant Aunt Bea has playing the brilliant Amy Winehouse's brilliant Rehab song.

As Henry's eyes come to rest first on Bea, then Em, who is jumping up and down doing happy claps, and then on me, I see that his expression is perfectly readable this time; it is straight up awe and joy.

"Well?" I say softly. "Are you coming in, or what!" He slowly makes his way in, helped by Shad, the hallway lurkers crowding in behind him to much oohing and ahhing. I go over to Henry and take one arm, pushing the walker to the side, as Shad and I help him to his club chair. He sinks into the worn leather with the most gratified smile I've ever seen.

That miraculous progress just keeps coming. Bea is at the sink, washing the lunch dishes with some special antibacterial soap she brought so she can wash up here and leave the dishes for future meals. The miracle is that Henry ate right in front of us at the new table in his room. I think this was due to the fact that Bea brought homemade pizzas—somehow kept warm via some magic pizza stones—so there was no cutlery needed. I'm sure this was by design on Bea's part; I'll have to ask her later.

I have been arguing with Em as we sit around the table after lunch, but we're all in such good moods that we're laughing more than anything else. We're bickering in particular about her sending that damn town car every morning.

Em is nonchalant when I argue about the cost of sending a car for me every morning. She is unmoved when I mention that I have studied an Okinawan style of martial arts…_in Okinawa, _not to mention all the other self-defense and martial arts classes I've had all over the world at Grandmother's insistence. She is undaunted when I explain that I have walked around China, Japan, Syria, Cameroon, Dubai, Russia…She interrupts my list of countries and turns directly to Henry—who is smiling indulgently at us.

Em says, "What do you think, O.G.? Surely you wouldn't argue with me about this." I note she is using her uber-Southern honey voice, which is patently unfair.

All of us go still as statues as Henry opens his mouth. Henry's going to talk! Grandfather is talking! Of his own volition!

Just as before, I look at him, listening hard, and I get it! I get it!

Emory turns to me, "What did he say?"

"He said," I translate slowly pushing back my elation, trying for an air of reluctance, "That he would never argue with anyone trying to protect his granddaughter." I roll my eyes for effect.

Em looks at me, haughtily triumphant, "See!"

I mock glare at Henry. "Traitor!" I accuse, hiding my own triumphant smile. From the sink, Bea winks at me.

I may have lost this town car battle, for now, but I'm winning the war. This is a miracle! Henry's only said "yes," and "no," in front of other people so far. This is a big step—huge!—in this path toward him getting better. And getting him communicating!

I ask him, "What do you want to do the rest of the day, G?" Slowly, Henry replies, but I do not translate this, instead exclaiming, "What! It's just past noon!"

Bea this time, "What did he say?"

I don't answer at first, asking Henry, "Are you sure?"

Henry nods, but I let him have this one. He's gotten good at using his words.

Em again, "What? What did he say?"

"He said to let an old man rest. He's tired. Come back tomorrow." I am searching his eyes, his face, for any signs of discomfort when Bea bustles over from the sink, trailing his walker which she places next to his chair.

"Do you want to get into bed, or stay in your chair?" she asks.

He points to the chair he's sitting in, then sees the admonishment in my face for not using words, so he says, "Chair."

"Okay then. How about I set up your computer in case, you know…" Bea trails off, going to the closet where she pulls out his laptop. Oh, I hadn't thought to bring it. In fact, I hadn't even seen it in his study. Bea sets it up on the table in front of Henry, opening it and hitting some keys. "The wireless connection is strong here. There are your files. And here's that program I set up so you could track Elle's phone in China." She hits some more keys. "Look! It's still working."

We all crowd around to see and sure enough, there is a map of Manhattan and three pulsing dots indicating the Rehab; one of them is Bea's.

"My grandfather the stalker," I joke, but I know it gave both Henry and me comfort that we both watched each other's movements while I was across the globe. I have the same program to track his phone on my own laptop and phone.

"Ah lu' wat'g yuh mom'ts a'nd Chi'a." _I loved watching your movements around China. _Henry continues, "Made me feel as if I was traveling, too, in some way."

"And I loved watching your dot here in New York when I was in China. Made me feel as if I was at home with you, in some small way," I reply back, although I only looked at that app a handful of times when I was there. To Bea and Em I translate a truncated version of our exchange, "We both like this program."

Bea leans over the computer and pulls up another screen as I turn away to pack up, "And here's your email if you want it." I honestly don't know if he has enough control to be able to jab the keys to type anything. At the best of times, he's really only a hunt and peck kind of typist.

Which reminds me. "G, I thought tomorrow we could handle some snail mail correspondence together. I'll bring some note cards and the mail from home for us to answer." He does not say anything, just looking at me serenely. And I pause for a few seconds, before getting to the crucial question I've been wanting to ask. "Does anyone else know? That you're…um…here? Aside from the Gardners and us?"

Henry shrugs, shaking his head and I let him get away with this one, too.

And that reminds me of something else I've not yet thought about. "What about your phone messages? Have you checked them? Replied to any of them?" Why am I just thinking of this now?

It is Bea who answers. "I've taken care of that. I've called everyone back to say that Henry is away for the time being and will contact them when he returns. I changed his outgoing message to say the same thing, so there are no new messages left."

"Isn't that lying to people? His friends?"

"No," Bea argues. "Henry _is _away, isn't he? I just don't say where. So it's not a lie."

I think I'm a bit sensitive on this subject, since I was the recipient of that same misdirection. "I guess so." Looking down at Henry, I ask, "You're okay with this?"

Henry starts to nod, then says, "Da!" Russian for "yes."

"Aren't you turning into a show off!" I drop the subject as long as he's okay with it. I'm too happy with our surprise and him talking to dwell on anything else anyway.

Em and I collect our bags and such, with Bea wrapping up the remainder of the pizza for Henry to eat later. I move one of the rugs out of the way, leaving a clear path to his bed.

She asks, "Music? On or off?" Her iPod has been softly playing some of Henry's favorite songs after the Amy Winehouse song finished.

He opens his mouth, croaking out a word that to lesser ears could be either "on" or "off," but I know.

I turn to Bea, "He said 'on.'"

We each of us, stop to kiss Henry's cheek. "Thank you," He sweeps his arms around his newly-decorated room, looking at all three of us in turn. "Thank you so much." Even though the words are not clear, this does not need any translation.

"You're welcome," Em and Bea say in unison.

"See you tomorrow," I say, as we walk out the door. "Love you!"

I want to dance a jig down the hall to the elevator. I want to cry and laugh and scream and sing all at once. Henry is talking.

Henry is _talking!_

This is the beautiful blessed day when I have become the translator for The Translator!

In the car on the way home, we are all chattering about how well that went.

"That was so worth getting permission from everyone and his brother at the Rehab!" I exclaim, almost dancing in my seat. Over the course of the last few days, I have talked to every level of personnel who oversees Henry's care to get the okay for this, Shad helping a lot. When Henry leaves, I'll have to patch every nail hole and make the room just like it was. So worth it!

"So, you're good to change out the linens and towels every other day?" I ask Bea. That was one of the things I agreed to with the cleaning department; we're doing our own changing and washing of everything.

"As if I would let those fine linens get into the rehab washing system," Bea sniffs. "I put two changes of sheets and towels in the closet in his room already, and then I'll wash them as needed."

"Oh, bless you, Aunt Bea!" I am giddy. "By the way, did you plan the pizzas so Henry wouldn't have to use a fork?"

She nods, smiling, and for just a second I want to say, "Use your words," but I stop myself, shaking my head. "You are brilliant." I say instead.

"That, I cannot deny," she smugly shrugs.

"And you are hereby absolutely forgiven for all prior transgressions as long as you don't keep anything else from me of importance about Henry," I practically sing.

Bea quickly looks over me—I'm in the middle of the back seat—to Em, who has gone quiet on the other side of me. I follow her gaze to see Emory intent on her phone.

Bea asks her, "Are you texting that limey lover boy you keep prattling on about?"

"Yes. And he's hopping a train from Philly to take me to dinner later," she smiles dreamily at first and then looks up at me, getting a glint in her eye that I immediately distrust. I know that damn look; this is the purposeful gaze of The Coordinator or maybe even its evil cousin, The Controller. I'm not sure which, but either way I brace myself against the coming onslaught.

"And I want you to come with." My paranoia is confirmed when I hear her cajoling honey Southern voice. "Please. I want you to meet him. Plus, if you come, he might bring his best friend, whom he hasn't let me meet yet."

"No," I say simply, and I hope, definitively.

"Come on!" she pleads. "Henry is fine. Look at all we did for him today!" I know what she's aiming for—guilt—by bringing up all she's done for Henry and me. And she has done a lot. She knows I do not like being in debt to anyone.

"Nope."

She leans in front of me, batting her big blue kitten eyes to Bea. "Don't you think Elles should come out with James and me? Have a little fun? Just for dinner? For one night?"

Bea, very wisely, replies, "Oh no you don't, Miss Magnolia! I just got back in this one's good graces," she waggles her thumb in my direction, "so I'm staying out of this entirely."

I smile my thanks to Bea and turn back to Em, getting serious now. "Listen, I've been home for less than a week and everything, my whole life, is thrown for the proverbial loop, as has Henry's. All I care about is getting him well right now, and all that that entails. I can't think of anything else and I am certainly in no mood to be any kind of social. And I still have the last phase of the plan to do tomorrow, which is simply to get Henry out into the world again. And, _and_ I've got so many other things to do and think about." I take a breath, unsure if I'm getting through.

"Can we at least…"

I cut her off, knowing what she's about to ask. "No, you cannot drop by. Please, Emory Clare! I am going to get to work on that pile of mail in the kitchen, then take a long shower and put on sweats and stay in. I'm still half on China time, too. I'm exhausted. Do not, under any circumstances, bring him by." Her face falls, and yes, as much as it bugs me, I do feel a twinge of guilt.

She lifts up her phone melodramatically, typing out a text while saying, "My best friend stubbornly refuses to come out with us tonight. Change the reservation to a table for two, if you will. Send." She was clearly expecting me to acquiesce, like usual.

"I will meet him soon, I promise. Just not now," I say softer this time.

There is a ping of a reply text. Em looks at her phone sticking her tongue out at it.

"What did he say?" I ask.

"None of your beeswax."

"Tell me."

"Fine." She reluctantly puts her phone in front of my face so I can see it, with Bea peering over my shoulder.

The text reads, _Her grandfather is ill. I understand completely. I look forward to meeting your friend another time then._

"I like him already," I laugh, relieved.

"I really need to get him in line," she huffs.

Bea pipes up, "That poor boy doesn't stand a chance."

"He has no idea," I say, shaking my head.


	6. Chapter 6

_**5…Burdens**_

After putting the junk mail into the recycling bin in the perfectly clean kitchen, I take the remaining pile of mail into Henry's perfectly clean study, Petal padding along behind me since Bea is in the midst of doing a radio show at her apartment. Bea wouldn't say how she managed to get this place spotless this week—if she hired someone or did it herself—only trilling out "Ancient Chinese secret," in a bad jokey accent, before clamming up about it. I'm impressed, though. This place is Bea-clean, no dust motes allowed. Yet another thing I'm grateful to her for. She also called Zarahi's referral to start coming every week.

The study, I notice, looks odd without Henry's beat up chair under the bank of windows. My chair and Grandmother's are still there, though; we didn't move hers after she died, although no one's probably sat in it since then. I look at her hooded porter's chair sadly, but shake it off. I have work to do.

I sit in the old leather swivel chair at the massive antique desk and start sorting the mail into stacks. One is for personal correspondence to Henry. I think it's so sweet that people of his generation still write real letters via the mail. Henry has embraced email, somewhat, but his primary correspondence to his friends, the older ones at least, is through traditional mail.

I'm happy to see that he has letters from nearly every continent and quite a lot from the U.S. as well. Mostly those, I see, are from various college towns across the country: Henry knows a lot of scholars. I go through all the letters, arranging them in order according to their postmark date. Some of them were sent in February and March. I don't know if they just took a long time getting here, or if Henry has been lax lately in answering his mail. Either way, we'll take care of it tomorrow.

I have one letter, too, from my high school friend, Ito, who taught me Japanese and even some Chinese in the two years that he and I spent at school together in D.C. Both of his parents were Japanese diplomats and he had an upbringing much like mine, moving around a lot. We have sporadically continued the letter tradition, although we mostly email. He must've sent it here, expecting Henry to forward it to me. I rubber band that with the personal correspondence and put it aside to read tomorrow with Henry. He always liked Ito.

The next stack I go through is the "not sure" pile. There are three letters that are not bills, I don't think, but are also not personal correspondence. One has a preprinted return address from Midtown Manhattan, "Rosen, Clermont and Delaine." Law firm maybe? It's hand addressed to Granddad. I just don't know.

The two other ones in the "unsure" pile are both from a different law firm, this time in Philadelphia. Brechlin, Browning and Strohlein—at least it sounds like a law office. I'm curious and really want to open them, but as it is, I'm walking a fine line between taking care of everything I can so Henry doesn't have to worry, while also trying not to invade his privacy. I quell the urge to pry and put these letters on top of his correspondence pile to take to Rehab.

The stack I'm going to take care of now is the large one of bills, with a couple bank statements thrown in. It's getting near the first of the month and I don't want to be late on the rent. I'm not even sure how much the rent is on this place, I just know that my grandparents for years—well, mostly my grandmother, who handled the bills—always made a big joke of sending the rent check at the end of every month to "The Evil Slumlord."

I decide to do this methodically. First, I open and put aside all the outer envelopes and, without really looking at each one, set the bills out in a grid around me on the large antique desk. I swivel the chair around to the wall of built-in bookcases and file drawers behind me to fish out the large green leather checkbook ledger from the shelf where it always sits. I lug that onto the desk, tracing my fingers over where Grandmother had embossed "Office of The Rambler" on its front in gold lettering. It looks officey and old timey, about the size of a large photo album.

Not for the first time today, I wish Grandmother was here.

Opening it, I see that the balancing of this checkbook has not been kept up at all and I need to figure that out before I start writing checks. I set to work getting that up-to-date, picking up the bank statements, which are for January, February and March—April's apparently is not in yet—so I can match what's in the ledger.

An hour later, I've figured out that Henry's State Department pension and Social Security checks gets direct-deposited on or around the 1st of every month and that a Ms. Gladwyn Fairfield is our Evil Slumlord. Since I couldn't ask Bea, I had to match up the copies of the checks included on the bank statements with the check stubs that just said, "rent" to figure out her name.

But if she's an evil slumlord, she must be a doltish one, or maybe The Rambler is rent-controlled, because rent for this huge place is only $2000 per month. Ms. Fairfield's lack of real estate knowledge is really appreciated right now because it doesn't look like Henry has paid April's rent yet and the balance on the checkbook is $297.02. And that's even before I've looked at or paid any of the other bills.

Oh, Dios mio!

I put my head on the desk. We have never been rich, but have always lived well and had enough money to pay our bills. What was I thinking running around China with Henry paying for my plane ticket?

That triggers something in my brain and I bolt up from the desk, making Petal, who had settled on the chesterfield sofa, raise her head in alarm.

I run down the hallway to my room and rifle through my bedside table to find it; my own checkbook and saving account. The pride I had in amassing this balance withers as I make my way back to the study. Because here I was putting money in the bank as Henry is struggling to pay our household bills. Without looking, I know I have $7200 between my checking and savings accounts at Stanford Federal Credit Union, not including the piddling interest my savings earn.

Back at the study desk, I first write out a check for $4000 to Ms. Gladwyne Fairfield for both April and May's rent and put it aside in an envelope. I still don't know the address to send it, but it feels good to have written it; I'll go online to transfer all my money to checking later. Then I look at the bills laid out on the desk to prioritize. I put one aside.

The next largest one, not including rent, is a homeowner's insurance bill due at State Farm for our little bayside cottage in Napeague on Long Island. Dios mio, that's expensive, probably due to the fact that the house is in a flood zone. I write out a check for that from my account and seal it in the enclosed return envelope. I pay the whole Amex balance, which is not much, but only the minimum payment for the Visa where I see the largest recent purchase was my plane ticket to China.

Ugh. I can't sit still. I need to move.

Petal's eyes follow my pacing around the study, as I try to shake off the deluge of guilt I feel at my self-involvement at school, letting Henry pay for my school travel; letting Henry pay for _anything. _On my next round of pacing as I pass the window, something pulls me towards Grandmother's hooded porter's chair and I sit, tentatively, on the edge of the seat. I slowly scoot back and immediately feel her comfort. I shut my eyes and images from the past flit through my mind.

Of Grandmother going with me to open an account at Stanford and methodically showing me how to balance my checkbook and do my taxes from my various jobs, teaching me to drive and taking me to get my license. And before that, here and in D.C., and London, Paris, Ankara, and heaven knows how many other places, installing tile on a floor with me as her helper, showing me how to do laundry, the right amount of soap and sorting of colors and sewing buttons on shirts. Showing me how to get stains out of clothing using readily available products like vinegar and baking soda that you could find in any third world country. The memories flit past.

We've had housekeepers here and abroad, but Grandmother never let them clean my room or change my sheets or put away my books and toys. I did it. She took me shopping with her, figuring out bus routes, sometimes taking the bus with a security agent accompanying us, depending on where we were. She talked to me about budgets, comparing prices on things, gently haggling with stall workers in foreign marketplaces, counting out francs and euros in Paris, rubles in Moscow and St. Petersburg, dirhams in Dubai, pounds in Cairo, dinar in Algiers. We sent thank you notes together after any function we attended, shopped for appropriate and thoughtful hostess gifts beforehand. And so many other small moments, I see now, all in the service of making me adept at a practical and gracious life, making me _capable. _Anywhere.

And here I am in New York, using normal old American dollars to pay normal bills, and feeling dilettantish, inept, imminently _incapable. _

Eyes still closed, I whisper, "I don't know if I can do all this, Rosamunde. I need help." I sit quietly.

A startled gasp pulls me out of my self-despair and I wrench my eyes open to see Bea standing in the study doorway, stunned eyes open wide. We each don't say anything for a moment as she walks in slowly, eyes glued to me.

"My God, I thought you were Rosamunde for a moment," she says, sinking shakily onto the sofa next to Petal, smoothing out her yellow caftan over her knees. "You were in her chair sitting all upright, with that perfect posture she always had."

"I'm not _feeling _like Grandmother right now," I say woefully.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I was just thinking of her and how capable she always was. And how she spent so much time and effort trying to teach me, which was obviously wasted energy."

"Do you know why she did that? Spent so much time teaching you normal practical things?"

"Because she liked pointless endeavors?" I answer churlishly.

Bea chuckles, "For one, she understood that you had a very different life from most other children and she wanted to make it as normal as possible. And two, she couldn't stand the thought of you being like she was when she was young. She didn't know how to do _anything_."

I look at Bea quizzically because Grandmother was always the very picture of practical ability. She was the personification of a _doer._

"Uh huh," Bea nods. "Hard to believe, isn't it, but when she first married Henry she doomed untold loads of laundry from not knowing how to use the washing machine and she'd pour bleach on minor stains before putting them in the wash. She hid the ruined clothes and sheets and whatever else and went out and bought all new so your grandfather wouldn't know. She even said she blew up a stove, too, somehow. She said she didn't even know how to _sweep a floor._"

I start giggling a little at the thought. "I can't picture that. She knew how to do, like, everything, anywhere, anytime."

"They were in D.C. at first and she told me Henry had to fly off somewhere for just a couple weeks and she didn't go with him that time. Instead, she ran home to Main Line Philly and asked her family's long time housekeeper to teach her everything to do with running a house. She followed her around and asked questions and learned how to do all the housework. Rosamunde said their housekeeper couldn't wait to get rid of her. Hildegard was her name; a big no-nonsense Pennsylvania Dutch woman."

Bea pauses wistfully at the memory. "Your grandmother was a straight-up rich, spoiled W.A.S.P.—her words—who only knew how to look pretty and be charming at parties and mix great cocktails and play tennis. It was a generational and class thing—this would've been the late fifties and early sixties, I guess, before I was even born. Her life was going to be the same as her mother's and her mother's before hers; white-only country clubs and dinner parties."

Thinking of my grandparents' wedding photo, I say, "But she chose adventure with a scrappy half-Welsh, half-Lebanese interpreter from Brooklyn instead."

"Yep. She chose Henry. And a completely different world," Bea nods. "But that's why she wanted you to be capable in your own life. And your father got the same lessons you did; she was not having any progeny of hers blowing up appliances and not knowing a broom from a hand rag. You can bet your dad knew how to sew up a rip in his shirt and scour a kitchen floor, too."

At the mention of my father, I feel that ever-present sadness again, for me, for Rosamunde and Henry, even Bea, who was a family friend. My parents have come up so much since I've been back and I don't remember much of either of them. And I didn't know any of this about my grandmother's past, either, just what I learned from direct experience with her.

My self-involvement and selfishness and guilt and regret all mix up into a potent cocktail of their own as I look down at the floor in shame and self-pity.

Bea says quietly, "You know one of Rosamunde's main lessons is something that you rarely make use of."

She is looking at me so sincerely and with such feeling, that I don't really want to know. But of course I ask anyway. "What's that?"

"Asking for help when you need it."

"I never wanted to be a burden. Ever. Especially to them." I am dismayed to hear there is a little bit of whine in my voice.

Bea rolls her eyes theatrically. "What was Rosamunde's favorite thing to do when you were in a particular country—any country—for more than a few weeks?"

I'm not sure where she's going with this, but I have a feeling I'm not going to like it. "Um…Doing volunteer work?"

"Exactly." I don't trust her acerbic look. "And what were the primary organizations she worked with?"

I don't answer her, instead I mentally search for the trap she's laying out. Bea is never someone you want to have a battle of wits with.

"Come on…" she prompts trenchantly, motioning with her hands. "What kind of charities?"

"Organizations helping elevate women and children," I say reluctantly, before adding, "Why don't you just get to the point you're leading me to in your very laborious fashion and save us all this torture?"

She holds up her hand to shush me. "I cannot hurry this point because boneheadedness has to be countered step by step and very slowly." She draws out the last two words. "Right, so women and children's organizations. Now…how did Rosamunde feel about doing this work she chose to do?"

I know this full well because Grandmother and I talked about it at length over the years. When I wasn't being homeschooled, we volunteered together in I don't know how many countries.

But I'm not playing Bea's game anymore. I don't answer, instead I just meet her gaze, my lips pressed tightly together. She waits me out.

"Okay, fine, fine! Rosamunde felt honored and blessed." Now it's my turn to roll my eyes for effect.

"Thank you," she says primly. "She loved it. She was honored to be able to help, maybe even because she was so affluent early in life." Bea takes a big deep breath and I know we're getting to the heart of the matter. "Now, if you can, try to pull up anything in that scholarship-to-Stanford-at-sixteen/speaks-forty-la nguages big fat brain of yours that would make you think that taking care of her beloved son's only child would be anything like a burden to Rosamunde. Or Henry."

She doesn't wait long before prompting satirically, "Hmm? Hmm? Can't find anything? That's because there isn't anything. She was honored and blessed!"

"But they got me when they were in their sixties and could've been living it up in retirement on the Riviera or something."

"Right, because they are, were, the living-it-up-on-the-Riviera type!" Alright. I'll give her that point. "How do you feel about helping Henry now?"

"Honored and blessed," I say immediately.

"And how do you think I feel helping Henry in my own way, making his dinners every night and whatever else?"

"The same," I mutter.

"Exactly! And how do you think Henry feels about you being here taking care of him?" Bea looks up at the ceiling as if for divine intervention, adding to herself, I think, "God knows, I should probably have this same conversation with Henry again." Shaking it off, she turns back to me, "How do you think he feels?"

Oh. "Like a burden," I say quietly, and I know it's true. That thought weighs me down.

"Uh huh."

"Bea, what was your original point to all this?"

She ponders this for a moment. "Dammit, I don't remember now. You made me forget with all your poor-me talk about being a burden." Then brightly, "Oh yeah! It's that you don't need to be afraid to ask for help! You don't have to keep everything inside. That was one of Rosamunde's main lessons."

"I'm not afraid of asking for help!" I exclaim, not sure if it's true, but Bea's so unequivocally pedantic that I just feel the need to argue.

Her only answer is a cocked eyebrow and a smirk.

Now _I've _forgotten what I needed help on. Oh yeah, I was paying bills, before feeling completely overwhelmed. A question I didn't know I had until now comes out of my mouth as I get up from Grandmother's chair and go around to the desk.

"Do you know if there are any other bank accounts, but the main one? I know there used to be several savings accounts, but I can't find anything."

"Before Rosamunde…left us…she streamlined everything for Henry. Plus, I think there were a lot of medical bills for her that might've…drained some of that."

Oh. Bea's got heartache written all over her face and I will do anything in this moment to alleviate that. "Will you help me sort some of this out?" I ask tentatively.

Bea smiles, and gets up from the sofa, coming around the desk to lean over me as I open the Rambler's check book again.

"I've written out the rent check to Ms. Gladwyne Fairfield, but I can't find the…"

Bea interrupts me, "Who?"

"Gladwyne, our landlady." She looks as confused as I'm feeling right now. I explain to her how I figured it out by matching up check stubs from the copies of the checks on the bank statements. "Is that not right? Who do you send your rent check to?"

"Hang on. Let me grab something. Be right back."

She walks out the door and I just sit waiting, memories of my grandmother again flitting through my mind. One of these memories is of her working on our little bayside cottage at Napeague Harbor, making a side table out of a washed up tree trunk as I watched. It turned out really pretty. I do remember her saying then that she didn't know how to do anything useful when she was young, although she never went into detail about it like Bea just did. I remember not really believing her, just brushing it off as self-deprecation. I wish I'd asked her more about it then.

Bea comes breezing back in, a checkbook in her hand with cash stuffed in it. She sits on the edge of the desk.

"I don't send off a rent check. I give rent to Henry."

"Why?"

Bea looks a little uneasy, pausing before answering. "Well, technically, my apartment is not separate from this one. It's carved out of what used to be storage rooms and Rosamunde's old workshop. The bathrooms and kitchen were added when I moved in. You remember what it used to be, right?"

"Not really. I never really spent a lot of time here. We were always away in some other country." And then I gasp as a new thought enters my mind, "Is it not legal? Does the landlord not know?" I can't imagine Grandmother doing anything that was not by the book, but there is clearly so much I don't know.

"Of course we got permission from the owner. It's not legally separate though, it's like with maid's quarters or whatever."

I had no idea.

She leans over me, picking up all the bills and rifling through them. "I pay the cable, cell phone, and Con Ed bill every month. And this one other one is for my super high-speed internet. And I pay fifteen hundred dollars in rent to Henry."

"What! Are you aware that you pay almost all the rent for this whole floor?"

"So?" she shrugs. "You tell me where else I could find the apartment I have for what I pay."

But something about her is a bit shifty and I wonder if she's just making this up so she can give me money without my knowing. "I didn't find any record of a regular monthly deposit from you."

She looks at me pensively for a moment and then her eyes flick to the shelves behind me. She slides off her perch on the desk and grabs a Syrian carved metal box, setting it on top of the big checkbook on the desk. She lifts the lid and I see various denominations of bills are folded in it, mostly foreign, though.

"That's because I always put it in here." She takes the cash stuffed into her checkbook, drops it in the box, and closes the lid again, putting it back on the shelf behind me. "It's like Henry's petty cash for the month."

For some reason, I still think she's not telling the whole truth. "Are you sure you're not just saying that?"

"Please!" Bea opens her own checkbook and slaps it down in front of me. She points to the register showing payments made to the utilities at the end of March, then turns a page back, points to those same payments for February, and January and so on. She releases the checkbook and it flips to show the printed address on the checks as a P.O. box in Philadelphia.

"You need to change your address." I point to it.

She grabs up the checkbook. "Do you believe me now? Are we done?"

"I guess," I shrug. "It's just…you're paying for nearly _everything. _I thought maybe you were making it up to help me out without my knowing."

"And if I was?" She has that smart-alecky look on her face again. "Seriously, think of it this way…I'm starting to make good money from my radio shows…" I had no idea and open my mouth to ask about it, but am silenced when she continues. "And I need the high speed internet and electricity for that, right?"

I nod.

"Do you think with so much riding on these services that I would trust Mr. I-Can-Negotiate-Peace-Accords-in-Ancient-Sanskrit- But-Can't-Remember-Mundane-Things-To-Save-My-Life to send those checks every month?"

I think about it for a second and she's right. It was always Rosamunde who did all the household business.

I smile at her. "Maybe Grandmother should've spent some time teaching Grandfather to balance a checkbook and stuff."

"She was not stupid. I'm sure she knew that it wouldn't take with him."

"True," I concede. "Why don't you just set up an automatic debit? No one uses checks anymore."

"Because this is how I choose to do it." Bea says all huffish, getting up from the desk.

"Either we have rent control or our landlord is really dumb."

"Yes, I sometimes think the landlord is a complete idiot." Bea shakes her head.

"Wait! I still don't know where to send the rent check!"

"It goes to a law firm in Philly, but I can take care of sending it."

I pick up one of the envelopes from on top of the pile to take to Henry, showing it to Bea. "Is it this place? Brechlin and Browning and whatever?"

"Yep. But leave it on the desk with the rest of those bills you're done with, too. I'll go get some stamps from my place and get them ready because you, missy, are going to go walk Petal and pick us up some dumplings from that place down the street. I don't feel like cooking this afternoon after doing my radio show."

"Deal!" I say, as she walks toward the study door. "And Bea…thank you."

She turns around before leaving with a Cheshire cat grin, saying blithely, "Quit being such a burden!"

Great. I have a feeling this is going to become a new running joke.


	7. Chapter 7

_**6…Psalms**_

I am meandering with Petal after leaving all the bills on the desk for Bea to mail. All but one. This one, I have stuffed into my back pocket, envelope and all because I didn't want Bea to see it, but I'm also not yet sure how to deal with it. It is a multi-page accounting from the Rehab of the billing that Henry's insurance will not pay for. And it is staggering.

I do a mental calculation of the money coming in versus the bills going out and the math of it doesn't work. Henry supplemented his income after semi-retiring by teaching those university seminars, although I know money wasn't the reason he did it. But whatever, that's out for him now, obviously. And I don't want him to get kicked out of the Rehab for non-payment. Would they do that? And what about after his inpatient rehab when he's ready to go outpatient? How much will _that_ be? Will I need to hire a home nurse to help?

I notice Petal is lagging and turn behind me to see she is clearly exhausted, walking slowly with her head down. Merde! I've really got to remember that she's elderly and I tend to walk far when I'm thinking.

I look around for a place for her to rest and realize we've walked all the way up to Grace Church on Broadway; no wonder she's knackered, it's well over a mile from our building. And I didn't bring water for her either, like I usually do on our longer walks.

I feel a pull at the extendable leash and look to see that Petal is collapsed with her head between her paws on a patch of grass under a tree, just inside an open cast iron gate in a little garden next to the church. The tree's blossoms are raining down on her. Cherry blossoms, I think—Grandmother's favorite flower and tree.

I follow her in, pointedly not looking at the signs posted everywhere that I'm sure would prohibit this very action. I kneel on the walkway beside her, trying to coax her up, but she's not even lifting her head. She looks at me with those sweet pleading dog eyes of hers.

"I'm so sorry, honey," I whisper to her. "My fault. I should've paid better attention." I freeze when I hear a man's voice behind me.

"Miss…" I don't turn around. I know what he's going to say next: _you're not supposed to be in here. _

But he doesn't. "Miss, did you drop this?"

I lift my guilty eyes from Petal's prone form to see a thin balding man with blonde hair and kind eyes dressed in nicely pressed casual khakis and a button down shirt. He's standing by the little gate, holding an envelope in his hand.

I open my mouth to say…What?…_I'm sorry, _maybe? _I know I'm not supposed to be in here, _but instead I blurt out, "I need a job!"

I don't know where that came from, except it's the only answer to our money dilemma and the thought just popped right into my head and right out of my mouth.

He walks a few feet inside the garden towards me still crouched in front of Petal. "What kind of job?" He tilts his head questioningly, interested, and the expression on his face has so much comfort in it that I answer ruefully to this nice stranger.

"All I've ever done is translate or teach foreign languages."

"Which languages?"

"Spanish, French, Japanese, Chinese and I have a piddling knowledge of some others."

"You speak all those? Writing, too?"

"Si, oui, hai, and shi." Okay, so I'm not perfect in traditional Chinese writing, but I'm not bad either and my simplified Chinese hanzi is darn good, although Professor Zhang-Lei might say otherwise. But I'm distracted from my inner dialogue because an astonished look dawns clear on the man's face.

He pauses for a beat before saying excitedly, "Stay right there for me, okay? Please!? I'll be right back!" He points at me until I nod in shocked acquiescence.

He almost leaps back through the gate and wheels left at the sidewalk, disappearing from view. I swivel on my heels and fall back on the grass next to Petal, facing the gate, dumbfounded at the course this little forbidden stop at the church garden has taken.

"He might be going to get the police to arrest us for trespassing, Petal. I bet they don't have dog treats in jail." At the key words, _dog treats, _she cocks one ear, then lets it languidly drop when I don't say anything else.

A minute or two later, I don't know, the thin blond man comes around the corner again, clutching the arm of a grizzled, bearded, gray-haired older man, maybe a decade or two younger than Henry, wearing a beat-up navy corduroy mariner's cap. As they stand in front of me, the blond man drops his hold on the other man's arm and elatedly looks between us.

"Captain Gray, I'd like you to meet…" his arm sweeps toward me with a flourish as I look at both of them, mutely.

Oh. That's my cue, I guess. "Ellawyn Ellis?" I say, not meaning to put a question mark on my name.

"And pray tell the captain, Miss Ellis, what kind of work you do," the blond man says with rising mirth, looking at Captain Gray, who stares at me sternly.

"Um…I translate and teach foreign languages?" Again my voice lifts up in a question.

"And remind me again which languages you're proficient in."

"Japanese, Chinese, French, and Spanish?"

They both gaze at me, the blond man with something like jubilation.

The captain says to the blond man grumpily. "She's too young."

I blurt out, "I just graduated Stanford!" Okay, so, I still need to send in that form Professor Gardner gave me, but essentially I am a graduate.

They turn back to each other, the blond man with a grin that is both sweet and smug. "Might I remind you, Captain, the subject of last week's sermon, which I noticed you attended? It was from Psalms 4:1, 'Answer me when I call, O God…Have mercy on me and hear my prayer.' Remember that?"

I have no idea what's going on, but I watch, rapt. Captain Gray, I notice, is wearing a button-down white shirt under a navy blazer that matches his cap. Complete with his topsiders, he truly looks every inch a storied sea captain. He doesn't answer.

The blonde man continues. "And do you remember what was used as an illustration of one point of that particular psalm? From the Titanic? And how the Lord wanted the captain to take the messages out of his pockets? Surely you would remember that reference since it involved a famous ocean-going vessel." He is practically glowing. "Well, I first came to speak to Miss Ellis here because an envelope fell out of her pocket."

Oh, I'd completely forgotten about that. He hands the envelope to the captain before turning to me, holding up his hand, "Forgive us, dear, but the stubborn captain has been having a crisis of conscience and faith as of late, and I need to walk him through this." He punctuates this sentence by winking.

I think I nod. He's reminding me of Bea from earlier, walking me through my own crisis, just with less sarcasm.

The captain looks at the envelope, which is addressed to Henry and then his eyes move toward Petal for a moment. "Are you any relation to Rosamunde Ellis?"

"She was my grandmother."

"Was?" he asks.

"She died around a year and a half ago," I answer, a pang shooting through me.

"I'm sorry to hear that. My wife really liked her. Good woman." He hands me the envelope with Henry's rehab bill that I'd stuffed in my back pocket. "I met her at a couple volunteer gatherings, although she was part of a different outreach then I am." He nods his head toward Petal. "She brought the dog occasionally. Thought I recognized her."

I had no idea she volunteered here, but I know she loved this church and was brought up Episcopalian.

The captain regards me pensively. "I volunteer with the Seamen's Church Institute affiliated with Grace Church, assisting seafarers from around the world when they come in port here. But my actual job is with a company called Falk Atlantic Investments."

He stops, as if weighing his thoughts. I am pinned, unblinking, by his piercing gaze. He reaches a hand into the inner breast pocket of his blazer, pulling out a business card, but he makes no move to hand it over.

The blond man breaks in, "As much as I'd love to see this through, my dear wife is waiting for me and I must leave you to it." He looks joyfully between us. "I'm sure I'll see you at tomorrow's Holy Eucharist, Captain. We'd love to have you too, Miss Ellis. The very apropos subject of the sermon will be how Grace Church ministries have been channels of God's grace!"

He smiles at each of us elatedly and turns to walk out of the garden onto the city sidewalk, heading north along the fence. I watch him go, realizing I don't know who he is.

The captain calls out to him, "The Titanic sank, you know!"

The blond man calls back over his shoulder, not breaking his stride, "But only because the captain didn't listen to the Lord's messages!"

Captain Gray shakes his head at this, a begrudging smile forming on his weather beaten face. He turns back to me. "Your dog looks done in. Let's see if we can't find you a cab that will take the both of you home."

He reaches out a hand to pull me up, then hands me his card.

I take it from him old-school Japanese style, using both of my hands, bowing deeply.

"Hajimemashite, Senchou Gure-son."

I like the way his answering smile makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners.


	8. Chapter 8

_**7…Blessings**_

Sunday I run out to pick up some wraps for lunch. Henry still won't leave the building, despite my cajoling. I want to ask him if he would like to go home to the Rambler soon for a visit. What I don't know is if going home will traumatize him in some way since it was the place of _the incident_. I decide to save it for another time. Maybe it's just too soon.

Instead, as I join him at the table, I steel myself, take a deep breath and tell him that I might get a job. I am horrified to see that my words have brought about the very thing I want to avoid—his face is crestfallen.

"School?" is all he asks.

I've not told him about getting my diploma. I've not told anyone yet, except for what I blurted out yesterday at the Grace Church garden to Captain Gray and the other man whose name I never got.

"I've graduated with a degree in Japanese studies."

"What about your Masters'? A Doctorate? What about your Chinese studies? What about your minors? You can't have finished the credits for those, too." I never knew Henry paid that much attention to my credits. The funny thing is that I've never declared I wanted to get a Masters or a Doctorate; it was just assumed by everyone.

"If I feel like it, I'll get them later." I try for nonchalance.

"Ah di' wa ya ta ha ta de wi ah dih," Henry says. I'm getting good at translating for him, but this sentence takes me a moment before I can quite catch it.

Ahh…_I didn't want you to have to deal with all this_.

"What's more important than you!" I reply, forcefully. "I _want _to deal with _all this_!" I sweep my hands around the room. "What do you think I am, some silly random kid?"

Henry shakes his head, woefully. "No, you've never been that. You never put a foot out of place, never did one thing wrong or got in trouble, ever. Never complained when we picked up and moved somewhere else every few months. Always did what you were asked immediately. Kept everything inside."

"Would you rather I would've gotten in trouble, G?" My attempt at levity falls flat.

"It's not that, but you should be at school, or traveling for school. Be with friends your age, not here in your old grandfather's hospital room."

Bea's words from yesterday come back to me and I can't bear it. I get up from my chair and come around the table to kneel beside Henry's, grabbing both his hands. "It is an honor and a blessing it is to be able to take care of someone you love, even if you thought you had other plans."

He does not look convinced so I take another cue from Bea, laying it out for him, desperate for him to understand. "Did you and Grandmother ever feel like it was a burden taking me on when you were in your sixties and had already raised your son?"

He is aghast. "Of course not!"

"Why in the world would you think I am any different? You are my favorite person in the world. I will be here for you, like you and Grandmother were for me. I don't want to _do_ anything else in the world, _be_ anywhere else in the world." And I don't mean to say this now, not yet, but it spills out anyway. "Why would you not want to tell me, G? About you being sick now and two years ago about…"

I don't need to finish the sentence for Grandfather to know I meant not telling me that my grandmother was sick until the very end. I have so much more to say, but the burning in the back of my throat seems to have turned my words into vapor.

"We just wanted you to stay in school, your grandmother and me. You fit in so well there. You blossomed and made friends. At school you had a semblance of control of your environment, when you probably hadn't had it before with us moving around all the time and then before that when…" he trails off. He doesn't need to finish the sentence for me to know he's referring to my parents' death.

Even though it doesn't excuse the fact that my grandparents' illnesses were being kept from me, he is right about school to some degree. I think back to how I felt the moment Professor Gardner handed me that diploma in the airport and it shook me to my core to imagine not being in school where I knew what my duty was.

"You don't remember much from the time you first came to us, do you?" he asks.

I shake my head. "When you're able, you can tell me the story. I'm not seven anymore, you know."

"I know. And I want to tell be able to tell you all your stories." He looks so sad when he says this that my heart breaks anew.

How in the world did a little conversation about my getting a job turn so heavy? I gaze at my wonderful grandfather, love pouring out of both us.

I swallow hard, suddenly tired. "We'll talk more about that later. But for now…this can be fun, you know…my being here with you…if you just get over it and let it be what it is. Because I'm not going anywhere, you are so stuck with me, dude."

Granddad tries for a smile as I go sit back in my chair.

"So, G…speaking of stories…eat your wrap and I'm going to tell you a story of how I came to have a job interview on Wednesday. It involves Petal, a pretty church, a nice stranger, a sea captain, and…somehow, believe it or not…_Grandmother."_

The sorrow in his sweet eyes is replaced by a little glimmer of interest. Henry loves stories in the way a little kid does. He loves to tell them and he loves to listen. I look forward to when his language is strong enough for him to start telling his stories again.

I sit back in my chair, and I start, "After I left here, I did a little Walkabout yesterday…"

I wrap-up by telling him about emailing my resume to the captain last night with all the letters of recommendation that I already had from various Professors, including Gardner, Zhang-Lei, as well as the parents of the elementary school kids I taught languages to while at Stanford—one set of which are sort of famous Silicon Valley entrepreneurs. I relate what I know from web searches about how Scottish immigrants from Brooklyn started the early version of Falk Atlantic Investments as a small firm importing mostly Scottish and Irish goods. Their son, E. McMorgan Falk, now in his early sixties, took it over and turned it into a multi-billion-dollar privately-held shipping company that now does manufacturing and all kinds of other things.

"So, is it okay I won't be here Wednesday when you wake up?"

He waves this away, saying, "I guess I should be glad you're getting out! And you know I have a soft spot for scrappy Brooklyn immigrants." Henry describes his own parents that way. "I look forward to hearing all about it."

He actually seems pleased by this job possibility now. Maybe he took our little talk about my staying here with him in New York to heart. Of course, I left out how I was freaking out about our bills and that the envelope that fell out of my pocket was his rehab bill.

Baby steps.

"There is one thing I'm scared about—terrified, actually." The smile drops off his face, so I quickly add, "I have to leave soon to go meet Em back at the Rambler so she can help me choose an interview outfit."

I see Henry's sigh of relief before his eyes go wide with mock horror. He says something that, at first, I can't translate.

I look at him quizzically for a moment before it clicks. Ahhh…He's switched to Arabic.

"Allah yoofithook." _May God be with you._

"I know, right?" I reply, nodding my head.


	9. Chapter 9

_**8…Water Themes…**_

Wednesday morning, Marco opens the town car door a half block down from the Falk Atlantic Investments building with a brisk "Good luck!" and an appreciative glance at my interview outfit. We are down by the South Street Seaport on a block with old cobbled streets. It's still a bit too early to go in yet, which is why I requested to be dropped off out of sight of the front of the building. Well, that and the fact that I don't particularly want to be seen by a potential employer swanning out of a chauffeured car like I'm some rich girl. I'll walk around for—I check my grandmother's watch—precisely seven minutes so I can arrive fifteen minutes before my interview time.

I am dressed in a lightweight black wool suit jacket cut slim and ultra-chic with a fancy rounded collar and three-quarter sleeves. Underneath the jacket is a cream and black nautically-striped silk stretch turtleneck and a black calf-length pencil skirt that Em had informed me, is a "window pane plaid," which is far enough away from "schoolgirl" to be okay. She'd said that this ensemble, along with the loose bun we practiced last night, "perfectly minimizes your youth while still being cool and modern and fresh."

I think Em's picked up a new sort of language during her short time at Vogue—she bandied about the word "fresh" a hundred times while I was trying all this on in my room.

I'd protested when she showed up Sunday afternoon laden with shopping bags; I was planning on her helping me pull together something from my own closet. The shopping bags were mostly from the Jeffrey New York store, which she tried to pass off as shopping she'd done for herself that she was going to "lend" me. Emory won't out and out lie to me, but she might misdirect a little when it comes to dressing me. But she couldn't pass off the John Fluevog heels she'd also bought as meant for her because they were in my size and I wear a full size and a half larger than she does.

She has also "lent" me a black bag with white trim that probably cost more than my plane ticket to China—a lot more—but it has room for the folder carrying hard copies of my resume, school transcripts, and letters of recommendation, plus my social security card, passport and birth certificate, just in case. More importantly, it has room to carry the flats I will walk back home in to change clothes first before heading to Henry's, rather than the lovely modern black pumps with a subtle design stamped on the leather and a little strap around the ankle that I am currently wearing for the interview. I can walk in any kind of shoes, even these high heels on this cobbled street. I am sure-footed, but not stupid; it will be flats on the way home.

The bag, Emory has explained, will be the "hero piece." I have no idea what that means. More new fashion terminology, I guess.

Yes, I accepted her gifts with the caveat that I will give the expensive black and white bag back to her and also that, after the ride to this interview, I would no longer be squired all over town by Marco and his town car.

It worked.

Em didn't even seem to notice that the deal I proposed was essentially, _I will concede to this gift of these clothes, if you stop giving me the other gift of having a town car drive me everywhere. _Such is the munificence of my best friend.

The fact that she accepted my deal is especially good because I do love this outfit and it would've pained me to turn it down, and, yes—I admit to myself as I gaze up at the old brick warehouse-looking building that houses the corporate office of Falk Atlantic—I do indeed feel _fresh!_

Show time!

I've now been here for hours and am in sitting in a chair in the office of Julie Thomas, the head of personnel. She is explaining to me that the position they're looking to fill will be a new one and its duties are not quite delineated yet. They expect it to involve translation, primarily of Chinese, Japanese, and Spanish. It will also likely include teaching some rudimentary language and culture classes for some of the employees as well. This is almost like the job I had teaching English while in China. It's to be part-time for now, on an as-needed trial basis with at least fifteen hours per week to start, and it pays what, to me, is a huge hourly rate.

_Holy….!_

When Ms. Thomas says this magic figure, I hope I keep my face blank, but inside I'm jumping for joy. I've never made anything close to that before in any job. But even better, I quickly calculate, it might almost cover Henry's insurance deficit at the Rehab! If I get this job, I will immediately hunt down the Rehab billing office and set up a payment plan.

Both of us look up as a smiling Captain Gray walks in to her office, leaving the door open behind him. He is dressed in khakis, top siders, and a navy polo shirt with "Cpt" emblazoned on a gold colored patch on his chest. He has the same old mariner's cap on his head that he wore on Saturday.

Ms. Thomas says, "You've already met Captain Gray. He runs the…uh… mailroom here on the basement level."

He leans against the wall of her office. "Miss Ellis, good to see you again."

I smile widely at him, "You, too, Captain Gray."

Not a minute behind the Captain comes a short, stocky, dark-haired man in his twenties, wheeling a cart whose handle is a kind of anchor. He leaves it in the hall. I've already noticed that everything in this building—the art on the walls, the furniture, the insignia on the Falk Atlantic logo, everything—is nautically themed, kitschy even. I saw another mail cart earlier with a handle like a carved dolphin figurehead from an old boat. The chairs and sofas in the lobby were made of some kind of maritime-looking rope. The colors everywhere are mostly various hues of blue and battleship gray with some shots of gold and red.

The young man takes a small stack of mail from his cart and walks in the door, placing it on Ms. Thomas' desk.

Captain Gray says to him, "I want you to meet Miss Ellis here."

The young man turns toward me. He's dressed similarly to the Captain. The patch on his shirt reads, "Roddy."

"Roddy here speaks Spanish, like you do, Miss Ellis," the Captain continues.

"Nice to meet you," he says in Spanish, extending his hand, which I take.

"Nice to meet you, too," I reply.

The captain says, "Roddy, why don't you tell Miss Ellis what you do here."

"I've been in the mailroom for about two months now, sorting and delivering the mail." he says in rapid Spanish with a Mexican accent. "Which I guess is kind of obvious."

"Do all of the mailroom workers wear the same uniform?" I ask in Spanish also.

"Unfortunately, yes," he replies ruefully. "Hopefully, you will get to bypass this particular indignity if you come to work here."

"I rather like the uniform. Very…uh…oceanic," I say, judiciously.

"If I ever need a job at a water theme park, I should be set." He laughs sardonically. "Your accent comes from Spain, right?"

"Yes, that's mostly where I learned the language. I spent time there when I was a kid." _And in Costa Rica_, I think, but I don't say that.

"Thought so."

"What about you?" I ask. "Where did you learn Spanish?"

"I was born in Santa Fe, but my parents emigrated from Chihuahua. I learned from them. It was actually my first language." He smiles at me, then glances at Ms. Thomas. He switches back to English. "Well, it was nice meeting you. I better get back to it." He nods subtly to the Captain, and I know his coming here was by design to check my Spanish skills. I've already had three conference calls with native French, Japanese, and Mandarin speakers from heaven knows where, to test my spoken skills in those languages, as well as translated some documents, which were then faxed to points unknown.

"Thank you, Roddy," the Captain says as Roddy leaves, then he turns back to me. "Something's been niggling at my memory. As I mentioned before, I had met your late grandmother, but I also think I might've heard of Henry Ellis, too. Is he, by chance, your grandfather?" I know he's thinking of that envelope with Henry's name on it.

"Yes. Rosamunde's husband."

"He's sort of famous, if you will, in translating circles, isn't he?"

"He worked in the State Department for a long time." I can't help the swell of pride I feel in Grandfather.

"I think we used him once a couple years ago for an emergency translation at the Seamen's Church Institute for an injured Urdu-speaking sailor who was in port in New Jersey."

"I don't know of that instance, but he does speak Urdu as well as many other languages." I make a mental note to tell Henry later.

"Hmm…" the Captain ruminates before turning toward Ms. Thomas, a look passing between them. "I'll let you two finish up. Good to see you again, Miss Ellis." He shuts the door behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

_**9…Tridents**_

After filling out multiple papers and forms in Ms. Thomas's office, I am standing in front of the bank of elevators when I hear her say behind me, "Miss Ellis!"

She is jogging toward me down the hall, "I forgot to give you the form to take to the medical testing center. Just give them this when you go in." She hands it to me.

"Thank you," I say taking it.

"See you Monday week!" She turns back down the hall.

_Lovely!_ I think to myself. I'm leaving here to go pee in a cup at some place not far away for the mandatory drug test. I've never had to do that before. But hey, I got the job, so I'll do whatever I need to!

I fish out the folder from my expensive bag and am in the process of putting the paper in it and the folder back into the bag when the elevator pings open in front on me.

I step into it, then look up.

There is a boy…a man…a _god, _standing near the front of the elevator next to a mail cart, taking up all the space. I almost run into him.

I gasp.

He has black hair curling around his neck and forehead with the deepest black eyes that ever were. He is holding a trident and I swear for a moment, I flash to a picture of him rising from the sea, dripping water off the tanned olive skin of his imagined bare chest, a blazing expression on his ravishing face.

He is like continents and cultures and countries all colliding into the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

My mouth drops open, dumbly. We stare at each other for a moment and I almost think I see a hint of recognition in his expression before he looks me up and down, one side of his full mouth twisting up in a sexy predatory grin that immediately makes me wish that mouth was touching mine.

Then several things happen in quick succession.

One, I take a step back onto the elevator threshold to keep from bumping into him. I feel my heel inexplicably sink down a few inches, causing me to waver on my feet, but I steady myself.

He takes a half step back to let me on the elevator—not really enough room, I'd still have to brush past him.

I step forward again, but my leg somehow doesn't comply. It is not with me at all.

I fall forward and the hand holding the bag, my right one, pushes the cart hard against the side wall of the elevator where it bangs with a loud crash, forcing the trident out of this sea god's hand as my bag sprawls onto the floor.

My other hand, seeking purchase, grasps his hip, hard. My full weight falling against him barely jostles him.

I try to stand up, but my leg just isn't there and I sink forward again, my right hand now grasping the other side of his hip.

I blink, wide-eyed at the zipper of his khakis.

I have face-planted about two inches from his crotch.

At least some of my long hair has come free from the loose bun and is trailing toward the floor. I look down at it, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but at his groin and see a ship pattern intricately embossed on the toes of his brown boots.

I can't understand how I got here.

I wrest my eyes away from his boots, to look back behind me toward my missing-in-action foot. The heel of one of my shoes is stuck somehow.

The elevator doors close on my foot. Then open again when they hit my heel. Then close…then open…like a fish gasping for air. This hits right at my ankle bone and hurts something fierce; I'm going to have an awful bruise.

My eyes move back to my hands on this man's hips, the only thing keeping me from going down entirely, and then travel upwards to see his head bent down toward me, a wicked glint in his eyes.

He makes no move to help me, the bastard, so I start climbing up his body with my hands, until I am at an angle where I can try to get my one unstuck leg bent under me, but I'm hampered by this tight pencil skirt.

He steps forward just enough so I can climb my hands up his hard stomach another few inches. And then another step forward and another half foot, and again, until my hands have climbed up to his chest level.

Finally, long ropy tanned arms reach slowly, insolently, forward to lift my shoulders, helping me to a near upright position. He walks me back, keeping me close to his body—his hard, muscled body—so I am standing again in the threshold of the elevator. I must be tripping the sensors fully now as the doors have stopped closing on me.

When I am relatively steady on my feet I release him, dropping my hands from his chest to reveal the embroidered patch of the mailroom uniform that reads, "Vince." I stare at it, not knowing exactly what else to do.

I am conscious that he keeps his hands on my shoulders. I swear I can feel a burn through the fabric of my jacket from where he's touching me.

I am close to six feet tall in these heels and I still have to look up slightly to meet his eyes. They are not black at all, but the deepest darkest blue.

Merde!

One of his hands lifts up from my shoulder, pushing an errant strand of hair behind my ear. A finger grazes my ear, making me shiver.

I am mesmerized by his eyes, by his unusual face, by his touch from a moment ago that still lingers on my ear even though he's dropped his hand. And that mouth!

He stares at me, unblinking, before a debauched grin spreads across his full lips. Arrogant man! He knows what he's doing. I can't look away.

Shock runs through my entire being as he lowers himself, kneeling in front of me. I can't think why he's doing that until my eyes follow him and I feel that same burning touch at my ankle. I gasp, jerking my foot back as a jolt runs up my leg, but of course my foot doesn't move. I almost knee him right in the face. My heel is still stuck in that small gap between the third floor and the elevator.

My mind brings up those ubiquitous messages blaring all over the London tube stations and I think I say out loud, "Mind the gap," before willing myself to…Shut. The. Hell. Up.

He unbuckles the ankle strap then gently grasps my ankle to pry my foot out of the shoe, making me shudder. The pain in my ankle is immediately gone, replaced by a tingling sensation from his touch.

I step forward, faltering a little, my hand leaning momentarily on his bent back as I move further into the elevator. As I turn around to watch him, I notice that his mail cart—the one that I slammed into the elevator wall when I tripped—does indeed have an upright Poseidon trident as its handle.

He is still bent down, trying to wrench my shoe out of the gap, but I know the heel is in a kind of hourglass shape—the bottom of it is wider than the middle. It seems stuck tight in there.

I watch his muscles flex. He has a dark leather bracelet, a sort of cuff on his wrist that somehow accents the masculinity of his arms.

Without looking up he says softly, "Your name?"

This is the first I've heard him speak and his voice is like a touch, a lick.

I literally have to shake my head to gather myself enough to answer. Conscious of what has just transpired, and watching him kneeling with my shoe, I try for humor. "Cinde…" I'm about to say, "Cinderella," but I stop mid-word, as the elevator starts making a horrible buzzing alarm sound, probably because the doors have been open too long.

It is _loud_.

His muscles flex delectably as he tries harder to free the shoe. Two heads emerge from offices down the hall, looking toward us as the shoe comes up with something like a popping sound, which I probably made up in my head because there is no way I could hear it or anything else over the shrill buzzing of the elevator.

This man does not notice that the heel did not come with the shoe and I am not quick enough to say anything. He follows my gaze, and tries to grab the heel, but it's too late. I watch it disappear into the gap as the elevator doors close and the alarm stops.

"Damn. I liked those shoes," I say forlornly.

He gazes down at my legs, then up to my face as he stands, raising an eyebrow suggestively as I feel the elevator descend. "Me, too."

I find my eyes swiveling up to his again.

Holy Mother of God! This man is so…I don't know; I can't find the words in any language. I am lost in his eyes. All the atmosphere between us, all the air in this small space seems alive with fluttery unseen things. As I breathe them in, my heart beats wildly, taking flight.

"So…Cinda…Is that short for Lucinda?" He says this so softly and sensually, that it makes me want to hear those lips shape my real name.

I look at him dumbly, first shaking then nodding my head. It's all I can do. He obviously didn't get the interrupted Cinderella joke.

I abruptly stoop to pick up my bag from the floor, just to break the eye contact, but it has somehow ended up under the cart with just the handles sticking out. I grab one handle to pull it up and it catches on the bottom of the cart. I pull harder and the cart just bangs on my hip and around the side and back of the elevator until, finally, the bag pulls free. I waver on my feet as I try to stand back up and he catches me. Again.

I gasp from the contact of his hands on my waist. I am too embarrassed to look at him. My face has got to be so beyond bright red.

"Your last name?"

"Grace," I blurt out, trying to pick up the thread of humor again, but I'm just too mortified to give it a comical spin.

He releases me. "Do you work here?"

I nod, unable or unwilling to find the words to explain that this will actually be true in a week and a half. Of course my eyes tack right to his again. He is staring, disconcerted, frowning in concentration like he's trying to place meeting me before.

I may not know much, but one thing I'm sure of is that if I'd ever met this man, I could never, would never, forget him. I don't say anything else, but just stare back, drinking him in. His face is more unusual than strictly beautiful—strong jaw, fathomless piercing eyes, dark lashes, golden skin. The elevator doors slide open to the first floor and thankfully there is no one waiting to get on.

I limp out of the elevator, humiliation washing over me again as I know he is watching my ungainly gait. I spy those nautical rope chairs in the lobby ahead where I can stop to change my shoes to those flats I thankfully brought, and I galumph toward them, wishing the elevator doors would close behind me.

I hear that sexy voice call out, "Cinda?"

I keep going.

"Cinda Grace."

Oh, right. He means me.

I stop, clomping around gracelessly to turn toward him.

His hand is holding the elevator door open.

His face is serious, scowling even.

He says softly, admonishingly, "Next time…at least buy me dinner first."

My eyes widen in shock and awe.

I press my lips together to hold back my astonishment and extreme embarrassment.

_That! _I exclaim to myself, _was a damn good line!_

He releases his hand from the elevator door, moving it to curl around the trident handle, a glimmer of that arrogant smirk returning to his ravishing face.

As the doors close, I notice that, swinging from his other hand, is my heelless shoe.


	11. Chapter 11

_**10…Poetic Fancies**_

"Nooo!" Em says with a mix of wonder and mirth for the hundredth time since I started this story. She is sitting cross-legged at the foot of my bed and I'm facing her, leaning against my forest green burlap headboard. "He did not say that!"

"Yes. Really." I repeat my refrain for the hundredth time, shaking my head at the memory.

After dinner, where I told the edited interview story, with no mention of the elevator saga, I dragged Em back to the Rambler to tell her this part of it.

"I'm impressed by him already. This story is so good it's almost worth you ruining those perfect shoes!"

"That's one of the many regrets of this whole incident. I loved those shoes, Em. Loved them! I'm so sorry."

I've relayed my mortifying elevator tale to her in an attempt to allay my humiliation; to turn it all into a cartoonish yarn so I can muster the courage to go back in there in a week and a half. And it's almost working; the more she exclaims with incredulity, the easier it is to imagine it as just slapstick buffoonery that happened to someone—anyone!—else.

The only part that's not working is I keep flashing to the feel of his hands on me. Um…and his eyes. His eyes are so real and compelling in my own mind's eye that they close the distance I'm trying to achieve in relaying this to Em.

"Speaking of shoes, you said you saw a ship embossed on his boots, right?" She reaches over to her purse sitting a few feet away on the bed and drags it over towards her. She pulls out her iPad and fiddles with it. "I'm pretty sure I've seen those before."

"Unless my mind just conjured it up to add to my sea-god vision, which I guess is entirely possible. But I swear there really was a trident on the handle of that mail cart, silly as it sounds. That other mailroom guy I met had an anchor on his cart, so I guess it's a Falk Atlantic _thing, _you know."

"Were they like this?" She turns her iPad to face me and I take it from her. Pictured on the screen is a Google images page with multiple photos of those exact boots.

"Yes! Those are the ones!" I hand the iPad back to her. "I guess I didn't conjure it in my head."

"Those are some really expensive Alexander McQueen boots," she says admiringly. "He has good taste."

"How can you possibly know this? About the boots?"

"How do you know all those languages? How does Bea know music? How does my mom know every aspect of interior design?" she shrugs. "I know fashion. It's just my thing."

"I guess," I mutter, in awe of her encyclopedic knowledge of all things wearable. "And I'm glad for it because you have to help me come up with at least a week's worth of business-y outfits."

She tucks the iPad back in her bag, then looks up at me with a devilish sparkle in her eye that immediately makes me uneasy.

"So," she says slowly, a grin spreading across her face. "Did the sea god make your _wahjuva_ sing?"

I cringe, my expression probably looking as if I've eaten a crate of lemons. Em does not know any foreign languages even though she's taken classes in French at school, only because it was the language of Coco Chanel. But she does have her own sort of Southern-based language and very definite opinions on words. She despises particular words and won't let you use them in front of her without complaint.

I learned this within the first week of being her roommate in Palo Alto. It started when I said the word _couch. _Em flinched with distaste, her delicate features screwing up to look as if _she'd_ eaten a crate of lemons. She'd primly correcting me saying, _Please don't use that word. It's awful! But feel free to have a seat on the _sofa_. _I didn't get that—what's the big difference between couch and sofa?—but I found she just doesn't like the way some words sound.

I have dubbed her particular version of the English language as "Southern Gothica"—a foreign tongue native only to Em…and maybe her mother, Allison.  
"Gah!…I can't believe you've _wahjuva'd _me!" I protest, holding both my hands in front of my face.

_Vagina_ is not a word she actually hates, but she doesn't think it holds up to the inherent majesty of the thing. She has renamed it _"wahjuva."_

"Well, too bad missy! You _crotch'd _me earlier when you were telling your story!" she giggles. Crotch is another word she despises and I saw her cringe when I used it, but she didn't kick up a fuss then as she was too engrossed in my tale of woe.

"What am I supposed to use instead of _crotch?"_

"_Privates_ or _private parts_ would do nicely, thank you," she primly explains.

"Alright then…I face-planted into his _privates!_" I say, emphasizing the word. We are both giggling now.

"So did he?" she asks gleefully. "Did he make your w_ahjuva _sing?"

I pick up a nearby pillow and throw it at her, but this is really redirection. Because I am not about to answer this ridiculous question.Instead, I can feel red climbing up my neck and cheeks.

After Em bats the pillow away, I am horrified to see a dawning astonishment on her face. "You're blushing!" she exclaims. "You're actually blushing! I'm not sure I've seen you blush before."

"Only because you keep saying that word!"

"What? You have a problem with your _wahjuva_ singing an aria to the sexy sea-god stranger?" she teases.

"Agh! Stop or you will force me to bring out the big guns," I say through my embarrassed laughter.

"Wahjuva! Wahjuva! Wahjuva!" She is relentless. "Wahjuva!" I cover my ears with my hands as she keeps on.

"Don't say I didn't warn you…Panties!" I screech. "Panties, panties, panties, panties!" This is probably her least favorite word. I laugh as I see her face scrunch up.

We are having a panties versus wahjuva duel.

"Okay, okay. I beg you, stop! Please!" She has curled up in a fetal position at the foot of the bed, putting her hands up to her ears.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch a movement and look over to see Bea standing in the doorway gazing at us with the most wistful expression on her face, almost beatific.

"What?" I ask, trying my darnedest to dampen my mirth, but I can't.

"It's just that…it's not often I see you act your age. And with someone your own age. It's nice." She walks into the room.

Em protests, "I am two years older!"

Bea rolls her eyes, "Ahh…youth."

Em sits up, looking at me, "Tell Bea about the guy who made your wahjuva sing, what was his name? Oh yeah…Vince! Tell her!"

Bea sits on the edge of the bed, looking between us. "This sounds good." Bea knows the creative translation of "wahjuva." I taught her that word and explained to her about Em's Southern Gothica language the first time I came back from Stanford for a visit.

I slump over onto the pillows, pulling one over my head. Bea knows about the interview. "I can't repeat it again," I say, muffled. I point toward Em. "You tell it."

And she does, with rather more drama and giggling than when I told it and no use of the word, "crotch." But the facts are all there.

"Wow!" Bea says. "That was a good parting line. I'm impressed with this mailroom dude already."

I pull the pillow off and tuck it under my head. "But how am I going to face going in there again?"

Em smiles, "I have something that could help."

"What could possibly help _this_?"

"Remember when I said I had some news, too, but made you tell yours first?" I nod. "I was talking to James today about you having an interview and…"

I bolt upright, cutting her off. "You didn't tell James about this, did you?"

"How could I have? You just told _me!_"

Oh…right. Where is my brain?

"So…as I was _saying_…" she continues, "I was talking to James and mentioned Falk Atlantic as the company you were interviewing with and his closest friend works there, too."

I groan. "What if it's that mailroom god? I'll die!"

"You will not die, Miss Hyperbole, because for one, this is a long-time friend and Penn roommate of his. They're about to graduate from the MBA program at Wharton, and he did an internship at Falk last summer. They hired him for after graduation, but he hasn't started working there yet. Plus, when he does, I doubt he'll be working in the mailroom," she sniffs haughtily. "And second, and most importantly, his friend's name is Leif." She pronounces it, "Layf."

"_Leif?_" I snort. "As in _Erikson_?"

"Or Garrett," Bea adds.

Both Em and I turn to her at the same time asking, "Who?"

"Just…Never mind." She shakes her head, looking pained.

"I know, right?" Em says. "What kind of name is _Leif? _I bet he got beat up on the playground with a name like that."

Bea has put her head in her hands and is shaking the whole bed with her suppressed laughter. "What?" I ask her.

She looks up, still laughing. "I feel almost rude pointing out that you," she points at Em, "are named 'Emory,' and your parents named you 'Ellawyn,'" she jabs her finger to me. "Neither of you two are a Jane or a Jennifer or a Kate, so I'm pretty sure this is a pot and kettle situation."

Em waves it away, "No one our age is named Jennifer, but there are a hundred Alex's of both sexes. Besides, I think making fun of someone else is helping our little _Ellawyn _mitigate her shame, so let's just let it be for now." She draws a breath dramatically. "So…as I was saying…before I was interrupted… something that might help…You and I are having dinner with them both Friday night. And there is no getting out of it."

"But…" I start to protest.

"No." She fixes me with a look that has bypassed The Coordinator and gone straight up to The Controller. "No ifs, ands, or buts."

"How is _that_ going to help?"

"Because you will have a friend at that company before you even start work." She gets a glittering twinkle in her eye that frightens me. "A friend in whose _private parts _you have not face-planted. Yet!"

"Ugh!" I drop sideways back into the bank of pillows again. I know I'll have to go to this thing. There will be no saying no to Em for this dinner and I do want to meet her new guy, but... "Alright," I grumble. "But just make the reservation for a place down this way—no upper east side or anything—and for later, so I can spend time with the O.G. beforehand, okay? I will be seeing a lot less of him with this job, you know."

"I've already thought of the criteria you might have and made a reservation

for nine-thirty at The Gotham." Yes, of course she would think of everything—The

Coordinator strikes again. I sigh loudly.

"You know what's odd about this little elevator encounter?" Bea asks.

"You mean, aside from every single solitary thing since the elevator doors opened?"

"There is that, but no…it's just that I've not seen you given to this kind of poetic flight-of-fancy before, especially regarding a _boy_," Bea teases, her eyes lighting up.

"Huh?" I'm confused.

"Well…calling him a _sea god! _Describing his coloring, his boots, his _eyes _in minute detail. Unless that was just Em adding onto the story when she repeated it to me."

Em huffs, "Oh no, that all came out straight out of Elle's mouth. She described his eyes as 'pools of deep ocean water,' or whatnot."

"I did not!" Okay, well…maybe I did.

"Uh huh." Em chides. "Yes you did! And Bea's right…I've never heard that from you either."

I'm embarrassed all over again with this turn in the conversation. "I can't help it. Maybe it was just all that kitschy mariner stuff that's all over the office, I don't know." Somehow a whine has crept right into my voice. "But I think if you were to see him, you'd both describe him that way too. There was just so much _gravity_ to him. He was just so…so…I don't know…_Male!"_

Both Bea and Em are grinning at me like evil Cheshire cats.

"Stop looking at me like that!" This only makes the both of them smile wider.

"And another weird thing," Bea adds. "I've never seen you stumble or fall once since you mastered walking."

"Come to think of it, neither have I," Em chimes in. "Remember when you raced Dylan across the Stanford Oval?"

"So? That was only because he was being patronizing and chauvinistic to Lexie. Besides, he beat me in that race."

"Yeah, I know. But you were wearing those really high summer wedges—the blue ones with the braided rope clasp. I don't know how you didn't break your neck running in those. I would've."

"Only _you_ would remember what shoes I was wearing, like, two years ago."

"And when we went camping up at Point Reyes with those design students and my hat blew off in the wind and you climbed down the side of that cliff to get it? It was like you were a mountain goat or something. And you had on flip-flops!"

"Again with the shoes! The only thing I remember from that trip is that you complained the entire time_._"

Em replies snootily, "To me, camping is staying at the Holiday Inn. I don't see the point of sleeping in a flimsy nylon cave on some windy hill where spiders live." I see Bea shaking her head at Em's high-and-mightiness and it makes me smile. "Seriously, though. When was the last time you remember tripping?"

"I don't know!" I shrug. But a hazy memory from a week ago drops into my mind. "Oh! When I first got to Henry's rehab from the plane, a lady who works on his floor was helping me find him and I stumbled into the elevator. I would've face-planted then, right into the floor, if she hadn't been holding my arm."

Bea gets up from the bed, heading toward the door. "So maybe it's just elevators!"

I don't say it, but, a little glimmer of an understanding comes to me in that moment. I think I've tripped both those times right when my life was about to change.


	12. Chapter 12

_**11…Boat Whistles**_

I'm not regretting having changed into this cheongsam I bought in a stall in Wuhan on one of my market trips with Dragon. I just wasn't feeling the little black dress Em had chosen from my closet last night for me to wear to the dinner tonight. This is such a beautiful color, all silvery lavender with cranes embroidered on it and black trim and frog closures. I don't know if Em will find it dinner dress worthy, but I feel good in it.

Somehow, after putting on this dress, I actually became excited to go out tonight. It might be the fact that just before I came home to change, Henry ate the dinner Bea brought for him with a knife and fork at the table right in front of both of us. A small thing, I know, but it's a wonderful marker of his improvement. And, he has begun his speech therapy and is walking so much better. Everything is just more hopeful and this dress seemed to better match my attitude than the black one.

After giving my coat over to the coat check guy, I am ushered just a few feet into the bustling restaurant to the first table in a long line of them. Emory is snuggled into the corner made by a low wall separating the front entrance from the long banquette with tables. There is a young man nuzzling her neck—all I can really see of him is the back of his sandy brown head. They are engrossed in each other, not noticing me. I stand there for a few moments, a little embarrassed, before saying, "Um…This must be that British boy you've told me about." They both look up, blinking.

He scoots over the padded banquette to stand at the edge of our table, "Oh, you must be the Ellawyn I've heard so much about!" He has a plummy British accent and a huge smile as he extends his hand. "James Ransdell!"

I take his hand, but instead of shaking it, he pulls me into a hug, almost knocking me into the table next to ours, which luckily, doesn't have anyone sitting in it. I smell whiskey and expensive cologne.

"I'm so glad to finally meet my best girl's best friend!" he says affably. I briefly return his hug, looking over his shoulder at Em to see her blush a deep pink.

Wow! This is a kind of a new look for her—all smiley and sibilant. Also, James is not the usual type she goes for. In my heels I am taller than he is and can feel his thin shoulders through his gray suit when we hug. She has always gone for bigger he-man types.

_Interesting._ I raise an eyebrow at her.

James releases me then reaches over to pull out a chair, "Here, have a seat across from me, so I can better ply you with questions about your best friend."

I put the black bag I got from my professors over the back of the chair—I'm using it as a purse—and James scoots back onto the banquette, putting his arm around Emory as I sit down.

He looks at me expectantly. "So, Ellawyn…" he says with a sweet smile, green eyes so eager and the cutest dimples I've ever seen. "Please tell me more about this whole Emory-can't-stop-talking-about-me thing, unless of course, it was some other English boy she was speaking of."

Oh, I like him already—his handsome face so open and amicable, with none of that upright British-ness. Although maybe this unguarded quality is due to the alcohol.

"James, you know full well that there is only you," Em chides him sweetly. She's using her flirty and feminine Southern voice. Poor boy, he really doesn't stand a chance.

He practically beams at her before lifting his highball and downing most of the contents, his rosy cheeks getting rosier. He turns back to me. "Sorry! Where are my manners…Can I get you something to drink?"

Em says, "We were going to wait until everyone arrives to order a bottle of wine." To James she adds, "I think we've both had enough of the hard stuff, don't you?" She is Coordinating him.

"While we're waiting, try this." She pushes her near-full cocktail glass over to me. "It's called the Bee's Knees; I ordered it because I liked the name." I take a sip. "Yummy, huh? Do you want one?"

"Oh, it is good, honey and lemon, but it's too strong for me. I'll wait for the wine," I say, wondering how many of these she's had. She seems a little off—a little too bright—and she's never been a big drinker.

"You can have the rest of that one for now. I've not had the best day, or really, best week, but everything does seem better now after a few of those." She giggles. "Plus, you're both here and my beau is finally letting me meet his oldest friend!"

James holds up his whiskey glass to me, "I've already had a few, too." He lowers his voice conspiratorially, "I always get nervous introducing Leif to a girlfriend."

I glance over at a now-frowning Em. "Are you ashamed of me?" she asks forlornly.

Whoa! Where in the hell is that coming from? This is not like Em at all. She is _always_ sure of her place in the world, _always_ sure of her appeal. This is unsettling. She must've had an _epically _bad week.

"What? How could I be?" he replies, aghast. "You are the loveliest, most…"

She doesn't let him finish. "And have you had lots of girlfriends?" Her Southern honey voice is still there, but I can hear the hint of something else behind it. I am flabbergasted by this version of Em and wonder if I need to take her to the restroom to talk to her. She has asked the wrong question, too; she should've asked _why_—there's a story there for sure.

His pale English face gets redder seeing Em's expression. "Oh no! It's not that, it's just…"

He glances up and is saved from answering. "There he is!" James exclaims.

I follow his gaze over my left shoulder.

Life is just not fair.

My stomach drops into my shoes.

My mouth goes dry.

My mind screams every string of curse words I've ever known in every language.

It's the sea god. Of course it is.

Again, I picture water dripping off him, but clamp down on that mental image immediately.

He stands there, right next to my chair, in all his glory, looking even more compelling than he does in my memory of him from the elevator. He's in a dark, perfectly cut suit, white shirt and lavender tie that somehow makes his eyes even more arresting.

James scoots out of the banquette again and comes around behind me to hug him, which he returns. From somewhere in the back of my not-quite-firing, water-logged brain, I think this is a sweet show of friendship.

"Have a seat, man!" James says, gesturing to the chair next to me before he slides back onto the banquette, putting his arm back around Emory who has a watchful, expectant expression on her face.

"This is the girl I've been telling you about!" James says flushing again. "Emory, meet my great friend, Leif."

He extends his arm across the table to shake her outstretched hand. What with the roaring in my ears, I don't really hear their murmured greetings, but I see Em nod and smile.

When he pulls out the chair and takes his seat, it really hits me that I am going to be sitting next to him through dinner—through ordering, through eating and drinking. And talking! I don't know how I will do it. I take a deep breath, mustering my game face, numbing myself, wiping the breathless shock off my expression—at least I hope so. I aim for inscrutable.

James smiles over at me, "And this is her great friend, Ellawyn, who will start work at Falk Atlantic soon."

He fixes me with a smoldering gaze, reaching his hand the few inches between us; this is not a large table. I swallow, thinking, _game face, game face,_ even as I feel my neck and face heat to boiling.I take his hand, shaking it, and want to yelp at the contact—this is like a riptide, all the blood in my entire body seems to go to my hand, pulling me toward him.

The tiniest corner of his perfect mouth turns up in…what? Wry amusement? A taunt? Sarcasm? Is he remembering the elevator? I can't tell.

"_Ellawyn_, is it?" he says smoothly, subtly emphasizing my name, but otherwise giving nothing away. "Very nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too, _Leif_," I say, emphasizing his. His uniform patch said _Vince. _

What's so weird, though, is that as soon as I say his name, as soon as it has passed my lips, it just feels so right. He looks like a _Leif_. And this Leif certainly never got beat up on any playground. I don't mean to, but I repeat it in a whisper… "Leif." It is like an oath. His eyes are fixed on my mouth.

I hear a woman's voice to my right. "I believe you were waiting for all your party to arrive to choose a bottle of wine. Should I send the sommelier over for questions?" I pull my eyes away from his to see a waitress whisking away James' empty cocktail glass. She is looking at all of us in turn, but her eyes keep going back appreciatively to the man next to me.

"That won't be necessary," Leif says authoritatively, as he picks up the wine list from the table. "Shall we start with a celebratory champagne?" he asks without looking up.

I hear a murmured assent from across the table.

"We'll have a bottle of the Pinot Noir La Cote Aux Enfants," he says decisively, snapping closed the leather War and Peace-sized tome that is the wine list, handing it to the fawning waitress. "And let's say two orders of the sea scallops to start, if they're still on the menu."

"Yes, they are. Very good choice," she says, dreamily to Leif. _Seriously? _Although, really, who could blame her?

She glances down at me askance and I know instantly what this means; I'm going to get carded. "I'm sorry, but I'll need to see some I.D. from the newcomers" she says, really only to me.

Maldito! I purposefully put my hair up in a kind of braided bun, hoping I would look older and more sophisticated than leaving it down or putting it in a ponytail. I reach around to get my wallet out of my bag and pull out Emory's cousin's driver's license, handing it to her, having hid my own California one.

She looks at it, then at me. It says I am Ashley Buford from Cumming, Georgia, age twenty-three.

When the sea-god…_Leif, _I mentally correct myself, hands up his, she dazedly puts mine down on the table, forgotten. I should be grateful it kept her from scrutinizing it further, but r_eally. _

I go to pick up the ID, but his long, beautiful artist's hand quickly covers it. He drags it along the table toward him then picks it up, examining it with just the tiniest flicker of bemusement in his eyes. Thankfully, he says nothing. He puts the license back down on the table in front of me before taking his own from the waitress who exclaims to him, "Great name!" She stands there for a beat too long before remembering herself. "I'll get your order right in."

After she leaves it is Em who speaks first. "So, what are we celebrating?"

Leif answers in his velvety voice, "That we are all meeting for the first time." He looks over at me.

Gulp! I pick up Em's cocktail and down it.

Em says, "Yes…about that…Leif, we were just about to start what I'm sure was to be an interesting line of conversation right before you arrived. James here was saying that he's always nervous introducing a girlfriend to you. That piqued my curiosity."

She might already have a few too many drinks under her belt, but I'm glad she brought it up; I can't wait to hear what he says.

It is James who pipes up. "Well look at him! Firstly, I think every girl who meets the two of us is sure to find me lacking." His unassuming candor is completely disarming. "It's just the way it is," he shrugs.

James is truly attractive, beautiful even, but just in a quieter, cuter way than Leif. Sweeter, too; he has no hint of that whole bad boy thing.

Em stops him, putting a delicate hand on his chest, looking up at Leif. "I hope you won't mind my saying that you are indeed a very good-looking man." James's face has fallen just a fraction. "But I've never seen a more handsome man in the world than your British friend here."

I don't know how she does that—making everyone feel so special in her perfect feminine way. She turns her face back to James, "You, my dear boy, are the bee's knees." She plants a kiss on his cheek and he visibly brightens, sitting up straighter.

The look that passes between them warms my heart.

"That's not really the reason I get nervous, though," James continues, smiling openly. "It's that Leif has ruined more than one of my relationships."

It is me who is sitting up straighter now, all ears.

"Do tell!" Em teases lightly, and clearly a bit alcohol-fueled. "Has he stolen your girlfriends away?"

That's exactly what I'm wondering.

"I would never disrespect my friend in that way," Leif replies sternly, sounding affronted. I quickly glance over, but all I can see is the side of his face; I would give anything to see the sea-g…no, I've got to stop that…_Leif's _expression right now.

"No, he would never do something so dishonorable to me!" James dismisses with a smile. "He would, however, go out with my girlfriend's _friend, _and then break her heart, making both of them so mad that my girlfriend breaks up with me!"

_What?_

Em gazes at Leif, giggling, "I do not normally wish heartbreak on any of my own gender, but in this case, may I say from the bottom of my heart, thank you for wrecking any or all of his prior relationships!" She reaches across the table to clutch one of Leif's hands and then looks over at me. "Sorry, Elle, but I have a new best friend now!"

James says, "We don't have to worry about it in this case because Leif has made a solemn vow not to do that this time because you are too important to me."

He pulls Em tighter to him then reaches his other hand across the table to take mine, mirroring Em holding Leif's. "Besides, he is all enamored of some new girl he just met at the company… Cindy or something, I think her name was? Something like that? He's spent the week calling around there to find her again."

_Ohmigod! _I stiffen. Surely he can't mean...

Okay, they have definitely both had way too much to drink. Em doesn't stop there. Still clutching Leif's hand she says "Even though I'm sad we won't be double-dating, that works out fine because Elle has met…"

And I know…I _know _what she's going to say next. I silently will her drunken ass to stop. My other hand clenches in my lap. Please no! _Please!_

"…some guy on an elevator at Falk that she is rapturous about…What did you nickname him, Elle?"

_No!_

"…The sea-god, was it? Right? Yes, that was it! Apparently, he was actually holding a trident!"

I want to kill her, throw up, and die, all at once.

Under the table, I feel a cool hand—Leif's hand—reach over to curl around my clenched fist. For just a moment, all four of us are touching, holding hands in a sort of square. I feel another jolt, but this time, strangely, the electricity is coming from both Leif and James's hands.

I'm not the only one who feels it.

Both Em and James quickly lift their hands off of Leif's and mine, Em with a little girlish squeal.

"Yikes! Someone's been rubbing their feet on the carpet!" she exclaims. "I just got shocked." There isn't actually any carpet in this restaurant that I can see.

Leif squeezes my hand under the table again, then releases it.

What the hell was all that! What did that mean? The hand under the table? The shock? Okay, this is so beyond weird—I have landed in the twilight zone of all dinners.

James and Em look perplexed. "Well, that was odd," James says in the understatement of the year.

There is a momentary silence between all of us before I feel movement next to our table. I gaze up to see a man placing a silver ice bucket on a stand next to me. I'm confused before I think, _Oh, a sommelier. _A sommelier with perfect timing!

He deftly uncorks the wine with a pop, then pours it into one of four champagne glasses he's placed on the table. "The Bollinger Coteaux Champenoix Pinot Noir!" he announces with a flourish. "A beautiful wine." Without asking, he hands the glass over to Leif, who takes a small sip.

"Indeed it is," Leif agrees, nodding.

As the sommelier fills the remaining glasses, placing them in front of each of us, he introduces himself, explaining that if we have any inquiries about wine choices for dinner, he will gladly be at our service. Immediately, I get busy trying to get Em's attention, so I can take her to the restroom with me and do some damage control.

I try pleading with my eyes first, but am hampered when James lifts his glass. "To what shall we toast?"

"To meeting for the first time. And to new and old friendships," Leif answers looking at me as I sit dumbly gaping, completely and utterly lost at sea.

"Elle?" Em prompts.

Oh. I come back to earth to see everyone is holding up their glasses, waiting for me. I quickly pick up mine, clinking it to theirs. I swear I feel another shock and my eyes dart around to see if anyone else noticed it, like last time. No one says anything.

Yep…definitely entered the twilight zone.

I cover my consternation by taking a huge gulp of the champagne, nearly draining my glass. As soon as I've put it down, James immediately reaches over to the ice bucket to refill it. I feel a dark pair of eyes on me and am compelled to glance up.

He raises a thick eyebrow, and I'm sure he's going to comment on the way I've swilled this fine wine as if it's a bar shot. I'm surprised when I hear him ask quietly, "Just how many names do you have?"

I know he's thinking, _Cinda, Ellawyn, Ashley._

I'm equally surprised to hear myself reply, "Quite a few, _Vince. _And you?"

I actually sound kind of cool, even though I don't feel that way at all. In fact, I feel quite the opposite. I am conscious that the whole left side of my body—the side _he _is on—is warm, like I'm covered by an electric blanket, or rather, scorched by an atomic blast. His presence, his energy, looms large at the table, pulling at me, overwhelming me.

I turn away, asking, "Do we know what we want to order?"

As one, James and Em pick up their menus, as do I, grateful for something to do in the moment. Leif, I notice out of the corner of my eye, does not pick up his. As I'm pretending to peruse it, I remember that I need to spirit Em away so I can tell her who Leif is and to get her to _ferme la bouche_.

When we were at college, Em came up with a kind of secret sign in case one of us needed to get the other's attention to get away from a certain situation, using involving a guy. It is a line from her favorite movie that she picked out because it is unlikely to come up in normal conversation. I've never had to use it before, but Em has several times—at a fraternity party she's dragged me to, at a dinner once, at several bars. I decide to hold off for now because, for one, the worst of the damage is already done. And two, the subject of the elevator sea god is unlikely to come up again; at least I hope it isn't. Either way, before I invoke the signal, I really do need to decide what to order.

I try to concentrate on the menu and am aghast to see that the prices for everything are very high. I've been here before, but it was with my grandparents and I wasn't paying attention to the cost. I'm pretty thrifty normally, but lately have been hyper-conscious of money and spending, owing to the fact that my family's finances are in the red right now, probably for the first time ever.

Plus, these two are just about to graduate college and there might even be student loans to pay; I would feel guilty ordering something pricey. I decide to order the least expensive thing on the menu, a beet and goat cheese salad. And, when the bill comes, I will brave Em's apoplectic fit and offer to pay my share of the wine and food. She is wealthy and from the chivalrous South; in her world boys _always_ pay.

I close the menu, placing it on the table. Almost immediately, my earlier hope of the sea-god subject being over and done with is proved wrong. But it is from an unlikely source.

"So, _Ellawyn…" _Leif says, again with the silken emphasis on my name, which sends tingles down my spine. "Tell us more about this…What was the term used?...Oh, yes…this…_sea god_ you met."

I whip my head around to see his mouth lifted in a half smile, reminding me of his arrogant expression on the elevator when I was clutching on to him for dear life to keep from falling. I would've thought he would not want to bring this up again.

_Pompous pendejo_, I think to myself.

I don't know what to say, nor do I know what to do. I am drowning in a sea of mortification once again. Across the table I see James's expression of real concern and as he opens his mouth to speak, I pray he will provide some sort of a lifeline to keep me afloat. "Yes, please do. Emory has told me that you've not had a boyfriend before so perhaps Leif can check this fellow out to make sure he's a good sort."

No lifeline. Instead, it is as if he is pushing me under the water. But he is so sweetly sincere that I can't really be upset with him.

I shut my eyes, in a feeble attempt to shut everyone out. _This can't_ _possibly get any worse_.

Em proves me wrong again. "You know, that's not a bad idea because I can tell you unequivocally that Elle is one step short of the porch regarding guys." I can feel her roll her eyes. "She has absolutely no game—not one ounce! She never gets it when boys are trying to put the moves on her and either way, she wouldn't know a hell's angel from a canonized saint. And from the sound of it, this guy is more the former than the latter!"

She is talking about me as if I'm not even here. And I wish so badly that I wasn't. I feel myself leave my body.

Leif says, mockingly, "I bet he's bad to the bone." Behind my closed eyes I can feel him watching me.

Em again, "I always had to look out for her at Stanford because she started college so young—she'd just turned sixteen. And she doesn't date. Like, at _all_. Ever!"

James mutters, "Leif looked after me at school, too, but in a different way."

Em giggles, lowering her voice, but not enough. "She's not really even old enough to drink legally yet."

Great! She's going to get me arrested for underage drinking. I come back to reality, opening my eyes and quickly scanning the area around our table. No one, thankfully, is near enough to overhear, although the hostess station is just over the wall behind Em and I can't see if anyone is at the desk. In this moment, though, the thought of being led away in handcuffs is almost preferable to this humiliating conversation taking place in this classic restaurant.

There is heat at my left ear, "Just when will you turn twenty-one?" That whole side of my head tingles, he has leaned so close to me.

I meet his eyes, but can't speak. He looks almost…_mad_.

It is Em who answers with another one of her girlish giggles, "A little over a year."

His brows knit together and I can see him doing the math, his look turns scathing.

"You're a _teenager_!?" he hisses, his whole face screwing up in anger and disgust.

I feel like I'm four.

Seeing this…this…_loathing _on his face makes me wish I was anywhere else but here. And the realization that I don't have to be here finally galvanizes me to action.

I bolt straight up off my chair, look pointedly at Em. "I don't like boat whistles!" I blurt out.

This is the secret signal that Em came up with; a line from An Affair to Remember. From somewhere outside by body, I hear how ridiculous this non sequitur sounds. Across the table, I see Emory get the signal, but she looks confused as to why I would invoke it. But the caustic look on my face causes her to practically shrink into her corner of the banquette. Then she does something I've never seen her do before.

She bursts into tears.

Honestly, I don't even care. Okay, I care a little. A lot. But I can't stay here. The last thing I see before I grab my bag off the back of my chair, throw down some money on the table, and stumble toward the door, is the shocked faces of the two men.


	13. Chapter 13

_**12…Gardening At Night…**_

Once outside, I just keep walking. There are other restaurants and businesses on this block and plenty of people around. I want to get away from them; get away from the entire human race. _Forward. Movement, _is all I think. I start jogging. Then running. I get almost to the end of the block and realize I have no idea where I am or what direction I'm traveling, and I am never directionally challenged, especially here in Manhattan where it is so easy to get around. I slow back to a walk, and then stop entirely. Even though I've been running, when I do stop, the cold descends through the thin silk of my dress and I start shivering.

I hear a voice, a beautiful velvety man's voice, call out behind me, "Ellawyn!"

I start walking again, away from it. _Forward. Movement._

"Please! Wait!"

I feel a hand grab my arm; this action causes me to spin toward him. I look everywhere but at Leif's face until I feel fingers on my chin, pulling my head to face him. My eyes reluctantly meet his and I shiver again.

"You're cold."

I shake my head, but my shivering says otherwise.

"You have a coat at the restaurant?"

I shiver-shrug in reply.

"Come. We're going to get it." He starts to pull me back down the block and I am suddenly conscious that I caused a bit of a scene by running out and there is no way in hell I'm going back in there.

I stop, quite literally digging in my heels, wrenching my arm out of his tight grasp. I will not be dragged down the street like an errant child.

Leif stops, glaring at me. I glare right back.

I think, but don't say, _You're not the boss of me. _This is not at all childish.

"Give me your coat check claim." When I make no move, he adds, "Now!" And then softer, "Please."

I am perturbed to find myself reaching into my bag to get it. I hand it over wordlessly.

"You are going to stay right here. You will not move until I come back." I don't answer. He walks a few steps toward the restaurant, his eyes still not leaving mine. He points at me. "Stay!" He turns, striding back down the block and for a moment, I'm actually glad he's getting my coat because it's a hand-me-down from my grandmother and I'd hate to lose it. I watch Leif until he disappears behind other people on the sidewalk.

Then it occurs to me that his last words were exactly what I've said to Petal the couple times I've tied her up outside some shop to run in quickly. _Stay! Do not move until I come back! _I giggle a little until my amusement turns to indignation and then outrage—I am not a child, nor am I a dog! I silently vow never to say that to sweet Petal again.

I glance around me, seeing the street signs just a few feet away. Okay…I am at 12th and University Place. I reset my internal compass. The street light changes to green and with it, the accompanying walk signal beckons like an invitation.

_Stay, indeed!_

I cross 12th and just keep going, turning south another block down.

I am momentarily confounded as the iron fence surrounding that side garden at Grace Church where I met Captain Gray comes into view. I guess I have not been conscious of where I'm going, just relying on my inner compass to give direction to my stride. I trail my fingers across the top of the fence until I come to the gate that opens into the garden, sure to find it locked this time. I try it anyway.

It swings open.

Knowing this is trespassing, I walk onto the dark garden path anyway, clicking shut the gate behind me. I sit on the wet grass under the tree, near where I sat with Petal almost a week ago, not even caring that this will probably cause a nice butt stain on my silk dress.

I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around my legs. I lean a little to my left, against the tree, closing my eyes. I am immediately soothed into a kind of peace.

There are plenty of people walking and talking on the sidewalk outside the church garden, but it is one brisk staccato of footsteps that I can't help but tune in to. It seems to exist apart from the other street sounds; its own song. It captures my hearing and won't let go. I curl into the tree, making myself smaller. The footsteps stop and I swear I can hear a head swivel from side to side. The footsteps start again. Then stop, to be replaced by the light squeaking of the garden gate. Then start again. Then stop. I keep my eyes closed.

Is it actually possible for a pair of eyes to burn into a person? My whole right side goes warm and then warmer still when a heavy body alights next to me on the ground. I hear shoes dragging on the earth and stopping in what I know, even with my eyes closed, is a cross-legged position. I feel a warm leg against my right shin. I tune into a new sound—breathing in and out. A new fire burns across my back as a muscular arm snakes around my waist, pulling me away from the tree. I hear a rustle of cloth and feel a coat placed over my back and shoulders. The arm again. On my shoulder this time, pulling me further away from the tree and closer to the warmth. I don't resist. I free fall to the right for just a moment, for just a few inches, my head coming to land against a shoulder. There's a new sense added to the sounds and the warmth, a lovely masculine scent. My nose moves forward, to the source of that smell, inhaling into a warm neck. It is my own arm this time that snakes across a back, under a suit jacket. My other arm moves across his stomach so it meets at his side in a perfect circle. I clasp my hands together, pulling tighter as my head searches the perfect niche against his neck. A warm hand softly touches my cheek, gently pressing my head tighter to the warmth and the smell. I do not open my eyes, but tune into another sound—the perfect steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Neither of us moves for an eternity.

Finally, a soft voice. "I better get you home."

My eyes open languidly.

_I thought I already was._


	14. Chapter 14

_**13…Nouns**_

It's the sound that I'm conscious of first; the bustling sound of industry. Then, I'm aware of the discomfort; muscles and bones aching. I stretch out and find myself tumbling onto a rug in a tangle of blanket and pillow with a graceless "Oof!" escaping out of my mouth. I look around me to see I am in Henry's room, having fallen off his chair, and it takes me a moment to remember how I got here.

As the memory returns of taking a cab up here in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep, so does the whole humiliating night at the restaurant. I wince.

And then…warmth…a mental flash to the garden at Grace Church… snuggling…Is that the right word?...Maybe nestling is better…in the arms of the sea god…no…Vince… Leif…he is definitely a Leif, it fits him, but then again, Vince does, too. Did he really walk me all the rest of the way home last night? Without speaking a word between us once we left the garden? Or was that a dream?

_He's all enamored of a girl he just met…Cindy or something…_

I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts, trying to put everything in its place again. I get off the floor and ease back into Henry's club chair where I guess I must've fallen asleep. I might be a bit fuzzy, too, from the…I count the number of drinks I had…three, I think—a record for me—and no food. One of those was that strong concoction of Em's.

Sunlight is streaming through the closed window blinds. There is a breakfast tray with a mostly finished cereal bowl on it. There is no Henry.

I pick up my phone lying on the table. Mierda! It's ten-fifty-five! I don't know that I've ever slept so late in my life. There are exactly ten texts and four phone messages, all from Emory I see, and from all hours of the night and morning. I quickly scroll through the texts.

_-I'm so sorry I was drunk and rude! I don't know what came over me. Well, actually, I do. I've had an awful week. I'll explain._

_-Elles…please call me back. Please forgive me!_

_-Let's start over again. How about a do-over tomorrow night? Please!_

_-Yes…that's what we need—a do-over! Us four. Dinner tomorrow! Well, I guess it's not tomorrow but later today. I want to make it up to you. Tonight. Please, please, please!_

It goes on in that same vein, but I put the phone down without answering her when Henry walks in with Shad.

I paste on a smile. "You're barely even leaning on that walker, G.!" I swear I've seen a daily improvement in his speech and movement.

He replies and I mentally translate it to, "Soon I will put Fred Astaire to shame with my dancing." My fake smile becomes real when I think of Henry's ridiculous dance moves. Bea even banned him from dancing in her apartment after he knocked over her John Peel altar one time. Bea is actually kind of forgiving of stuff like that, but you just don't mess with John Peel.

"Pfft. Sure you will!" I get up off his chair and throw the pillow and blanket on the bed. "Your throne, King Henry!" I say with a flourish as Shad helps him into it.

"Don't you think he's better every day, Shad?" I sit in one of the other chairs. "Even his speech is clearer today than yesterday."

"I do. I understand more and more words these days. It's kind of a miracle how much incrementally better he's gotten lately. I think that's down to you," he meets my eyes earnestly.

"I'm pretty sure it's you, but thank you anyway."

"Henry, it was a pleasure, as always," Shad turns to leave, calling over his shoulder. "You two enjoy your day!"

"Shad really put me through the ringer since it's only a half-day on Saturdays. Give me a minute to let my parts rest, then let's go get you some coffee downstairs."

I nod, still a bit groggy. Henry has still refused to leave the building—it is the one part of The Plan that I've not yet accomplished—but he will at least go to the coffee stand on the ground floor.

Baby steps.

"In the meantime, tell me about your dinner out. How was Em's suitor? And his friend? How was The Gotham?" he asks wistfully. "I love that restaurant. Classic New York!"

As he plies me with questions, I flash back to the humiliation of the dinner. Then the sweetness of the garden. Then the restaurant again. "It was fine," I shrug.

Uh oh. Granddad gets that discerning, sort of sagacious look on his face that I've seen many a time, like he's penetrating the depths of your mind. Grandmother was just as bad.

"You're forgetting that I am a wise O.G. who's been around both the proverbial and literal block." He waits for me to reply. I don't. "Plus, you're a terrible liar," he adds wryly. "But if you do not wish to talk about it, I understand."

I gaze around the room, looking anywhere but at my grandfather as he sits with a serene smile on his face. That's one of his many strengths; waiting you out, not filling the silences until the only thing left to do is spill your guts. The strength part of it is that you actually _want _to. He is a great listener, or maybe Master Inveigler is the better term for him—I'm sure that was a huge part of his success in the diplomatic corps.

Finally, "Well, it's just that…" I stop, unsure of how to explain. "Okay, so I didn't tell you everything about going to Falk Atlantic for my interview…"

And I tell him now. Everything starting from the elevator. I even tell him about face-planting into this guy's…I use Emory's word, _privates, _because it truly is a gentler word than _crotch. _And yes, I actually utter the words, "sea" and "god" right there together. The only thing I leave out (not counting singing wahjuvas—he is my _grandfather _after all) and I'm not even sure why, is the church garden thing last night.

I put my throbbing head on the table, mortified by how ridiculous it all sounds in the light of day, like it's just not a big deal at all. "You're probably ready to knock your head against this table because of the silliness of it all, right? You probably wish you were back at the State Department listening to real world problems rather than some stupid tale of first world chagrin."

"Au contraire, ma cherie. First and most importantly, I want to hear everything you tell me, every last word about your life and your perceptions of it. And also you know I love a good story. Maybe most especially one from my Little Bird. And you have to admit that is a great story—just wonderfully divine."

"'Divine' is certainly not the first word that comes to my mind, but if you say so, O.G." I lift up my head to rest my chin on my folded arms as he continues.

"Either way, it's all the same." He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands.

"What do you mean?" I ask, but I really already know.

"What I mean is that…" he trails off searching for the words. "Life-long feuds were started by the simplest and silliest of things, even wars between nations. Masses of people have been killed because of someone's perceived slight to the ego, or a minor embarrassment. It's all the same thing whether on a micro or macro scale. The trick is what we can learn about ourselves and how we can grow from any situation where we feel some discomfiture."

This is not the first time I've heard this from him in one form or another. "Well, a murderous rampage does seem like a viable option after last night," I grumble.

"If I remember correctly, it is the Buddhists who say that in a moment of extreme embarrassment—in figuratively or literally tripping—is when our authentic selves come forward. In the presence of that moment the egos that cloak us fall away, exposing our real selves.

"Well, G. If that's the case, then my authentic self is a bumbling, red-faced idiot who cannot speak and doesn't know how to act properly. Or walk, for that matter."

Henry chuckles at me. "Let me ask you this…" he starts with those bright penetrating eyes of his boring into mine. "When you left the restaurant…" He pauses, looking up at the ceiling. "Wait…let me back up a bit first." Another pause. "What really bothered you about the restaurant conversation leading up to you leaving?"

"Well, for one, Em was talking about me like I wasn't even there. They all were." At least I think they were, or maybe it was just Em. I stop to contemplate this as I notice Henry smiling up a storm. "What?"

"Lately, I might know a thing or two about being talked over like I'm not there," he says cryptically.

I'm not sure what he means, so I just go on. "And I was just so _embarrassed_. Like, from Em drunkenly spilling my secrets out for all to see." I pause to see if I've said it right as Henry waits. "I mean, I guess _secrets _is too strong a word, maybe, but…like she was billing me in a particular way. A way that I don't think of myself. Or something." As I blunder through this, I start to understand it more. "I know what it is. I was bothered by the fact that Em portrayed me as a stupid kid. Or maybe Dateless and Desperate. And while it is true that I'm not exactly a serial dater, I didn't want it made into a _thing, _you know_._ Does that make sense?"

"Of course. You didn't want a persona attached to it."

"Exactly!"

"So, why don't you go out on dates? I know you get asked because I've seen it firsthand."

Uh…I need to step lightly here. Because as much as I have shared all kinds of things with both my grandparents, this is something I really can't share completely. "Because I have been consumed with other things. It's too much with everything else."

I know Henry will assume that I mean schoolwork, and that's just fine by me. Really, though, the main "other thing" is trying to make sure my grandparents were happy and I was not giving them trouble. Being super successful in school was the form that took for at least the last few years. I am disconcerted when he looks a little sad for a moment, but he continues after a heavy sigh.

"So…if I'm not mistaken, last night you kind of felt as if you were a kid at the grown-ups table. Does that about cover it?"

"Sort of. But I've been with you and the GM plenty of times as the only kid at the table and that's never bothered me before. You know full well I'm more comfortable with adults anyway."

"But you didn't have any sense of control of the environment last night, plus with the addition of the sea god, everything was heightened; it was more embarrassing. It might've felt like something was being done _to_ you that you have no control of?" I nod. "And before last night, when was the last time you felt you had no control? Like something was being done _to _you?"

I look into Grandfather's eyes as he smiles softly at me, waiting. Holy crap! And I know. I know!

"When I found out your stroke was being kept from me," I barely whisper. "And with Grandmother…" There, I said it.

He nods sadly, clearly having known the answer before he asked the question. "And for that, I am very sorry."

Merde! How did he spring this on me? Unable to look in Grandfather's pained face any longer, I put my head back down on my arms.

There is a long pause before Henry speaks again. "Let's go back to the dinner." _Yes_, I think, _let's_. Somehow that subject seems such safer ground now, in comparison. "Before last night, when was the last time you felt embarrassed? Aside from tripping in the elevator, of course."

I have to mull this over, searching my memories. "I can't really think of a time," I say, looking up at him again.

"So this is a new feeling for you? Because you're always so careful? Never putting a step wrong." Again, Henry clearly knew the answer before he asked the question. I shrug, but in reality, I think he nailed it. I rest my forehead back on my arms on the table, listening. "Next time you're embarrassed, and you will be, it's a fact of life—honestly, most kids your age are embarrassed ten times a day—how can you choose to handle it in a different way?"

"You mean, _besides _hoping the ground beneath my feet opens up and swallows me whole?" I say, into the tablecloth.

Mierde! I am such an idiot!

I almost just described my parents' death.

Without looking up, I stretch my arm across the table until I feel Henry's hand cover mine. I'm usually more careful. Finally, I look up to see Henry looking at me sadly again. I would do anything to take my words back, but I can't so I'll redirect. "What do you think I should do?"

I watch as Henry collects himself. "One possibility is that you can just choose in that moment to accept embarrassment without fighting it. Or running away. Let those feelings wash over you."

_Like the guilt that's awash over me right now?_ I think, but don't say. I just want to keep him talking, keep him moving further away from the memories of losing his son and daughter-in-law, so I say, "Elaborate, please."

He smiles softly and I get a nice lecture about ways to handle it, ending with, "When you're feeling something new, lean in a little. Be present with it."

"It seems I'm embarrassed all the time around this guy—James's friend." Henry smiles widely at this. "What?" I demand.

He's still smiling. "What is it about him that discomfits you?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's that he's just so absolutely _alive."_

"And that's a bad thing?"

"No. But he's also kind of a _pendejo arrogante_, Granddad." As I say it, though, I flash back to him at Grace Church and my face flames. He wasn't that way at all, then.

"I'm shocked at your language!" Henry laughs.

"Um…you taught me my language, G! That word in particular," I mock protest, hoping he won't notice the blush that crept up my face a moment ago.

"I know, much to the dismay of your grandmother." He pauses, sobering up a bit. He looks so wistful for a moment and I know he's thinking of Rosamunde. "Plus, words like _pendejo,_ contravened her Rule."

It was my grandmother's Rule—with a capital _R_—that we were allowed to talk about how someone _acted _or what they _did_, but we weren't allowed to apply derogatory names to them. So we could say someone was _acting_ arrogantly, but not that were an arrogant jackass_. _This Rule was imposed after she began working in earnest with women and children's organizations and saw just how much derogatory names tended to objectify people—women, especially. She bristled when she heard someone saying something like, "That _whore!_" and would correct them immediately, no matter who they were. She worked with a lot of _prostituted women_. But never _prostitutes _and certainly never _whores._ That distinction was very important to her. She would always say to us, "Watch where the noun is." Because the important thing—the noun—was that the people she worked with were _women _and _children, _no matter what they had to do to survive. When Grandfather and I wanted to use words that violated her Rule—affectionate nicknames were exempted, of course—we switched to a language that she didn't speak, like Spanish. Hence, _pendejo._ Because sometimes you just need to call someone a jackass.

"Grandmother was very special, wasn't she?" I say. "I miss her, too, G. A million times a day."

"I know, Little Bird. I know. And I also know that neither of us would be half the people we are without her keeping us in line and teaching us." Now he reaches over to grasp my arm and we feel the loss of her together. "But getting back to the matter at hand, we can learn from our experiences. Whatever the circumstances, you can always choose how you want to be, even in the midst of something that upsets you. You can choose how you want to be as you let others be what they are. Because no one is a _pendejo _on purpose."

"How did you get to be so wise, O.G.?"

"Can I let you in on a little secret?"

"Yes. You shouldn't keep any secrets from me!"

His eyes twinkle. "That, my lovely grandchild, I cannot promise. An old man needs some secrets, just like blushing teenage girls do." Yeah, he noticed alright.

"I won't be a teenager anymore in a few weeks, you know," I mutter, which makes me sound exactly like a teenager. "So…you were saying…a secret?"

"Yes. This secret, I will tell you. And it is that I learned by making mistakes all the time. By being a _pendejo arrogante_ myself occasionally. By embarrassing myself too many times to count. And learning from it all. Now let's go get you some coffee downstairs—you look as if you could use a gallon of it—and I'll tell you about the time that I was more embarrassed than I've ever been before or since. It led to every single good thing in my life."

This was when Henry met Rosamunde. "I might possibly have heard this story a time or two."

"And you will hear it again a time or two. But do you mind wheeling me? Shad and his cohorts must think I'm an Olympic athlete for all the work they put me through this morning."

I get up to go check out a wheelchair from the front desk. Before I leave, Granddad says, "I forgot to tell you earlier. That whole 'at least buy me dinner first'? That was a great line!"


	15. Chapter 15

_**14…Names**_

When we get back, Bea is there, setting out a lunch of sandwiches. I realize I'm famished.

"Your phone's been chirping like a dog," Bea complains. "It's about to drive me nuts."

"That doesn't make any sense, and besides, you already are nuts, Aunt Bea," I reply, helping Henry into his club chair. She ignores me. "I'm sure it's Emory, but I don't feel like talking to her."

"Why not?"

"Long story."

"Well, isn't it a darned good thing that we're about to sit down to lunch, so we'll have plenty of time," she says brightly.

"Cuando terminara esta pesadilla!" _When will this nightmare end! _I mutter in Spanish, mostly to myself, but I hear Henry chuckling.

"You know Bea's going to hound you until you tell her."

"What did Henry say?" Bea asks. His language is truly clearer, but I still have to translate.

"He said, to quote The King, 'You ain't nothin' but a hound dog,'" I creatively translate.

"Elvis didn't write that song, Leiber and Stoller did. And Big Mama Thornton recorded it first and with a lot more emotion." Bea is always so annoyingly didactic about music.

"Whatever." I roll my eyes at her. "Elvis sang it, so I can still quote him." But Henry's right; best just get it over with. I sigh dramatically. "Okay. I'll tell you about last night."

And I do. I tell the stupid story of the stupid dinner again, mostly with my mouth full of this perfect sandwich on homemade bread, I notice. Again, I leave out the church garden.

"So…That's pretty much why I don't want to talk to her right now. She wants a do-over dinner tonight. And I don't think I'm up for it."

Bea is silent for a while, eating her sandwich and kale chips. "I just want you to think about something for a second." She puts the last bit of her sandwich down.

Henry watches us both, slowly chewing.

"Think of what?" I say automatically, although I'm not sure I want the answer.

"Well…Emory has been a good friend to you, right? A _great_ friend, even."

I shrug noncommittally, but the truth is, yes, she has.

"You know I think she is hilarious with all her Southern hoity-toitiness," Bea laughs to herself, shaking her head. "She was probably the prom queen, right?"

"And Homecoming Queen. And Salutatorian of her high school. And President of everything, including Student Council."

"Right," Bea says. "And Mommy and Daddy's little princess, and pretty as a picture. Good grades, probably never got a B her whole life. Loving family. Successful at everything. Always at or near the top. Always getting her way. Always admired, etc. etc. Even through college."

"You've pretty much summed her up perfectly."

"And now she's come to the big city—the _biggest _city, mind you—and is interning at Vogue, right?"

"Uh huh."

"The top fashion magazine where all the other tops-of-their-class, pretty princesses have ended up," Bea says. "And some might not be as kind as she is. And maybe she's not always getting her way. Not always the queen of the world any longer."

Oh. "Your point?" I ask.

"My point is that maybe she's going through her own adjustments and changes to her new world. Maybe things aren't working for her the way they used to, with everything a guaranteed success. Maybe you could ask her why she was so off last night. Why she got drunk as a punk and burst into tears, like you said. Maybe you could cut her some slack and accept her apology, knowing she's always been a caring friend to you."

Great. She's right. Now I feel all awash in guilt. _Again_! I look down at my plate, ashamed at being so churlish.

"And maybe you could cut yourself some slack, too. You've had a lot of changes and upsets in your life, lately. But even with all that, you can choose how you want to be. Choose compassion for your friend. Choose understanding."

I look up at Bea's earnest face for a long moment and something else new occurs to me. I quickly remember back to her talk about being a burden, and other things she's walked me through, going back even several years. And then Henry talking me through things earlier. Why have I not seen this before?

"Omigod!" I exclaim loudly. "You sound almost like Henry! And Rosamunde, too, for that matter! How did this happen?"

Her eyes go big. Henry reaches across the table to put his hand on Bea's arm, saying the sweetest thing.

Bea looks at me quizzically. I tell her, "Henry said you are the daughter that he and Rosamunde always wanted. And that you are wise, like she was."

Tears immediately spring to Bea's eyes. She jumps up from the table, taking her plate to the sink.

I turn to Henry in wide-eyed consternation, starting to get up to go to Bea. Henry shakes his head. I sit back down as she turns on the water.

"You and I aren't the only ones who miss our Rosamunde," he whispers.

I can't stand it, her being so sad. Jeez! This whole day has been emotional! Over the sound of the running water, I call out, "I'll ring Em and say yes to dinner tonight, but maybe just at The Rambler. I don't feel like going out again. Okay, Bea?"

"That sounds like a kind thing to do," she says thickly through her sniffles.

"I've got a radio show scheduled tonight, and the twins and some of their friends are coming over, so you know where I'll be." As if she's ever anywhere else but at home. "Stop by afterwards for dessert. You and Em can introduce me to your cute boys."

"He's not _my _cute boy!"

Henry says, "But you like him."

"I never said that!" I protest. "In fact, I believe I called him a _pendejo_."

"We will come back to that another day, but it'll be interesting to see what transpires." Again with his sparkling eyes! "There's something there."

"I never said that either!"

Henry smiles at me in a way that says, _You didn't have to._

Bea asks, "What did he say?" I don't answer her.

I quickly pick up my plate, joining Bea at the sink to escape Granddad's discerning stare. Does he not miss anything?!

Bea tries to take my plate from me, but I hold tight to it, not looking at her, muttering "I'll wash it." When I do glance up, Bea has dried her tears and is grinning at me. "Stop it!" I hiss before she returns to the table.

Henry says something that I can't translate immediately. It's a lot easier if I can see his face, but mine is too red to go sit back at the table. "Say again?" I listen intently.

I catch it this time. "You said there was a mix-up with the names, but you never did say what your boys' name actually was."

"It's Leif, Granddad. Leif. But his patch said 'Vince.' And he's not my boy!"

I take my time washing this one plate, just like Bea did with hers. I try to ignore the murmuring behind me. "I promise I will not mind if you quit talking about me now!" I hear Bea chuckle and I'm glad she's not so sad, but it seems to be at my expense.

"Why don't you ask all of them to come for lunch here tomorrow?" Henry says.

Huh? I'm not altogether sure about this—the very idea of it is like worlds colliding—but I don't want to turn him down either, especially because they would be the first visitors he's had other than family, Em, Bea and me. "Um…Okay. I'll ask, but they're probably all busy. Are you sure, G?"

"Yes, Granddaughter, I'm very sure."

"What did he say?" Bea asks.

I just shake my head, drying my overly-washed plate. "He said, and I quote… nice housedress!"


	16. Chapter 16

_**15…Challenges…**_

I take a deep breath when I hear Em's "Hello?" from the apartment's open front door. Her one word sounds like a plea.

"In the kitchen!" I stack some serving platters on the kitchen island. I don't know what kind of food they're bringing, but Em insisted that I let them get it after I insisted we have dinner here at The Rambler. I turn to the built-in banquette under the kitchen windows and busy myself adjusting the already beautifully-set table. I put a tall silver ice bucket next to the table.

I don't know why this is just occurring to me now, but this banquette almost perfectly mirrors the one at the restaurant last night—different fabric on the upholstery and without the wall where Em sat, but the same kind of setup. Weird.

When I hear them enter the kitchen behind me, I take another deep breath, steel myself, and turn toward them.

Emory, coming in first, is smiling a plea. Her expression looks like her tentative hello sounded. James follows her, both of them putting their food bags—from The Gotham restaurant, I see—on the island.

Leif comes in last, carrying heavy bags from a wine shop. As soon as I see him it's like every molecule in my being starts oscillating. I flash to the church garden.

Luckily, Em doesn't give me time to be overcome with my reaction to Leif, wrapping her arms around me, whispering _I'm so sorry! _before she takes my arm to lead me to the island.

"Ellawyn, I'd like you to meet a very nice English boy." I have to chuckle at this. When she said "do-over," she really meant it. "James, I'd like you to meet my best friend in the world, Ellawyn."

I half roll my eyes, but play along as I take James' extended hand as he says, "Nice to meet you, Ellawyn. I'm James." And just like last night, except minus his drunkenness, he pulls me into a hug, this time adding quietly in my ear, "Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive." I whisper back. "Nothing at all."

He gives me a grateful smile. "And may I say this is the best kitchen I've ever seen." He releases me and I follow his gaze around the huge gleaming black and white and brass and silvered space as he admires it. I've turned only the under-cabinet lighting on and have candles lit on both the island and the banquette table. The effect is lovely, I have to admit.

"My grandmother designed it before I was born, only updating some of the appliances along the way. And it still looks perfect and…" I borrow Em's new favorite word, "…_fresh_ after all these years. I would never change a thing." I am hyper-conscious of Leif standing just behind James. I have tomake my eyes _not_ go to him through sheer force of will.

James turns around toward him and my eyes move to his face. "And may I introduce you to my great friend, Leif Vincent. Leif, this is Ellawyn." Ahh, so that's where the "Vince" name comes from. A nickname—I'm certainly well-versed in those.

"Nice to meet you," he nods, distantly, almost sternly. His face gives away nothing with none of the tenderness from the church garden. He does not offer his hand, but turns back to the island, taking bottles out of the bags. For a second, I feel bereft.

"Where should I put these to keep them chilled?" he asks, holding up a couple of the bottles. That voice is a caress.

I point to the ice bucket I put by the banquette first, then the fridge.

Em comes up behind me, taking my hand, leading me to the kitchen door. To James she says, "Why don't you go ahead and put the food out. We'll be right back."

"There's a warming drawer just to the right of the stove and the platters are okay to go in there. I've already turned it on," I explain before Em drags me out the door and down the long hallway to my room, not saying a word. It is only after she's pulled me inside and shut the door that she whips toward me with an incredulous look on her face. "Leif _Vincent? _As in _Vince, _the elevator guy!?"

Now it's my turn to look incredulous. "Yeah. I thought you knew. I figured he would've told you and James or you'd figured it out yourself." Em and I didn't talk earlier setting this up, only texting, so I never asked her.

"I don't recall ever hearing his last name and Leif didn't say a word about it. Only texting James last night that he saw you home." She's shaking her head.

"That's all he said?" I ask.

"Yes."

I'm relieved to hear that he didn't mention the church garden and only right now, in this moment, do I know why I feel this way and why I wouldn't talk about it to anyone, not even Em. It's that it's mine. Some beautiful secret delicate moment. And I can't imagine talking about it—sullying it—like I did with the elevator incident. I needed to talk about that so I could laugh it off with Em and then Bea, and I don't even mind having told Granddad, but not this. I feel too proprietary about it. It is_ mine_.

"We just met up with him a few minutes ago in front of your building and came up together. James and I swung by The Gotham and picked up the food and Leif got the champagne from some wine shop." She closes her eyes, shaking her head. "Now that I know I can't believe I didn't see it immediately. He does sort of look like a sea go…"

She stops herself, opens her eyes quickly, scanning my face. Seeing what she said at the restaurant last night in a new light. "Oh Elle, I am so, so sorry. About everything! I teased you last night about…" she gulps, "…not knowing it was... " Regret is etched on her face. "And you kind of liked him, or at least were attracted to him it seemed, when you were talking about the elevator. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's okay, Em. Seriously. I don't…I'm going to be working in the office with him and I am not looking to…Just don't worry about it. What's done is done." I'm choosing to be compassionate, choosing to let go of the foibles and humiliation of last night and I feel better for it. "Tomorrow you can tell me all about your awful week, okay? When we can take some time and I can really listen, alright? But I'm starving and you brought all this food and we shouldn't keep them waiting."

And I don't say this out loud, but I feel pulled to go to Leif. Leif…who's in my kitchen right this minute! I almost feel giddy.

"Alright," she says, looking so vulnerable and young, The Coordinator and Controller nowhere in sight. "Maybe we shouldn't mention it to James just yet, you know…after he said that about Leif last night ruining his relationships. I need to ask him about that again later, but I don't want to worry him tonight."

_Yes, _I think. _Ask him about that and report back to me! _That's for another time, though.

"You know I'm certainly not going to say anything. But what if James brings it up? About the elevator guy, I mean."

"If he does, I'll deflect him," she declares. "Same if Leif does." I have to smile at this. The Coordinator still lives and breathes. "By the way, this outfit you're wearing is perfect. You look very Rosamunde tonight." That is the highest compliment Em could give. My grandmother was Em's fashion hero.

"You look very pretty, too," I say, opening the door. She has a colorful printed wrap dress on.

"You think so? It's not too flowery?" she asks tentatively, patting her dress at the waist, and again I think that this is the new unsure Em I caught a glimpse of last night. She's always been flowery and proud.

"You look beautiful. You always do." I lead her down the hallway.

"I slept half the day to recover from my hangover, but I still feel like something that crawled out of the Okefenokee Swamp."

"Let's both go have a little hair of the dog."

When we walk in the kitchen, James immediately whisks a platter out of the warming drawer. It is full of the scallop starter we didn't get to try last night. There is bread and salad on the table. Leif is at the table pouring a champagne that I would guess is the same one we had last night. No doubt Em coordinated this as part of the whole do-over.

"Ladies, have a seat." James pulls out a chair for me that would put me in the same table position as last night.

_Enough with the do-over! _I'm thinking, but dutifully sit down.

Em takes her place kitty-corner from me, like last night, but before James can sit across from me, Leif slides into the banquette next to Em.

Whoa. I thought sitting next to him last night was difficult, but sitting across from his is going to be way harder. Already my eyes flick to his and he half smiles.

As James sits next to me, Leif lifts up his glass. "A celebratory toast." Again Em has to prompt me. I am staring dumbfounded across the table. I pick up my glass as Leif says, "To meeting for the first time."

He takes a sip of his wine, his eyes on me the whole time. I have to stop myself from chugging my glass in defense. Instead I blurt out, "Please, let me pay my share for all this. Who do I give some money to?"

"Do not insult us." Leif looks at me, disgustedly. Em does too, for that matter, but her face softens quickly as Leif adds, "And I hope you found your money from last night in your coat pocket."

I hadn't.

Em, passing around the scallops, says, "Elle, I haven't asked you once since you got back from China if you were still doing the vegetarian thing, so I ordered plenty of squash ravioli and salad and the chef was kind enough to give us plenty of side vegetables, okay?"

Before I can reply, James asks, "You're a vegetarian?"

"No. Not really. I mean…well, sometimes. It's just…" Those eyes are on me, scattering my thoughts. I need to pull myself together. "When I went to China, I knew I couldn't eat every kind of meat they do, so I said I'm a vegetarian. Then I could get my own food and no one would have to worry about it."

"So you lie to them?" Leif asks, his eyes drilling into mine.

"No! Declining food your hosts offer is a big deal in the Far East and I just didn't want to offend anyone, especially the family I was staying with, and this seemed like the best way to avoid doing that. I am, was, a strict vegetarian the whole time I was there, so it wasn't a lie."

Why do I feel so guilty now? I did not lie to the Songs, dammit!

"So you're not adventurous," he says, not as a question, but as an accusation.

"I was traveling by myself through China. I've been to every continent on the planet," I say by way of an answer, getting my ire up a little. I do not like that I sounded as if I was bragging, but it's like he's trying to find fault with me. This is the elevator guy, not the one from the church garden. I liked the other one better.

"Even Antarctica?" he asks, like he doesn't believe me.

I look at him with challenge. "I said _every_ continent." Seriously, what is his damn problem?

"I meant with food. You're not adventurous with food." He says this dismissively.

I put a scallop in my mouth, looking down. Scallops are about as exotic as I get, meat-wise.

Thankfully, I don't have to answer as James says, "What you did makes good sense. It would be difficult knowing you offended your hosts." He looks at Leif, admonishingly I hope, then back at me. "Do they really eat snake over there?"

"Not that I've seen, but I did try not to get too close to the food stalls at the markets after I saw some things there that made my stomach do flips."

Em says, "In parts of the South where I come from, they serve snake and squirrel and possum and alligator and pigs feet and chitlins and brains and all kinds of god-awful stuff. And there's something called souse, which is like this lunch meat kind of thing that I can't even stand to look at." She shudders delicately.

"I hope to go to the South one of these days soon," James gazes across the table at Em. "But maybe not for the food," he chuckles.

Her answering smile is almost shy—the new Em.

"You're from the South, too, right?" I ask James. "The south of England, I mean."

"Yes, from Exeter! How did you know?"

"We lived in London for a while and I got to know the British accents."

"But you're not _from _there, right?" he asks.

"I'm not really from anywhere in particular." I start to try to find a way to explain that statement, but Leif is staring at me and I can't find the words.

Em says, "Sometimes she sounds almost English. They moved around a lot. That's how Elle knows languages of all kinds; she speaks a hundred of them."

"And you don't exaggerate at all," I mutter, popping another scallop in my mouth.

"Speaking of things Ellawyn knows, that reminds me." James turns to face me smiling brightly. "I was hoping, since you are her closest friend, that you could tell me all of Emory's deepest, darkest secrets."

He says this in so charming a way that I have to smile back at him. I glance over at Em and our eyes meet. She looks just a teeny bit worried, which she never would have been before; she would've been sure of me, sure of herself. I have to admit, for just one quick second, I think about all I know, all I could tell. _Payback _is a word that comes to my mind.

"Let's see…where to start…" I am drawing this out a bit, watching Em's darkening expression, which is not very nice of me, especially since she's seemed so down the last couple days. Of their own accord, my eyes move to Leif's and I see him smirk. Smirk, as if he would enjoy watching me embarrass Em. As if I would actually do that! I quickly glance back at Em to allay her fears with my kindest smile. When I see the relief on her face, I turn to James.

"Well…she will coordinate the hell out of you. In fact, I'm sure she already has."

Em blushes sweetly.

James says, "Oh, I'm pretty sure I'm thoroughly _coordinated._"He's giving Em an intimate look; at least as much as I can see of it sitting next to him. Now it's my turn to blush.

"And I'm pretty sure I'm talking about something else entirely," I mutter, grinning a little.

"I should hope so," James says cheekily, still looking at Em.

"You won't even know it at first—that you're being coordinated. But then you'll find your life is a little easier, smoother, more beautiful, _better _for it_._ Normally, her Southern accent is very slight, sometimes barely noticeable. But when it becomes more pronounced, watch out!—you're about to be Coordinated. The Coordinator is one of the nicknames I gave her; her primary one from me, at least. We're big on nicknames in my family." I make no mention of its evil twin, The Controller.

"What does The Coordinator do?" James asks.

I think for a few moments before answering. "It's mostly all good. She is generous to a fault." I narrow my eyes at Em thinking of the outfits she bought for Henry that she has continually refused payment for; we've argued about this all week. "You'll find a car is waiting for you at the airport when you need it most. When you've had a bad day, your favorite foods will magically appear for dinner. When your computer crashes, before you've even had time to worry about whether that paper you wrote is lost forever, a genius computer sciences student at Stanford will be over at the house repairing it that evening. And he will take care of it because he's trying to impress a certain Coordinator."

Em smiles at this memory. This happened twice while we were at school.

"You'll find you're dressing better," I say. "That tie you were wearing last night? I would bet all the _cha_ in China that Em bought it for you and _suggested _you wear it. And the shirt you have on right now? Same thing. I know this because for one, it looks lovely on you, and two, it complements what she's wearing." His blue shirt does perfectly bring out one of the colors in Em's flowery dress. "She does not like sartorial discord."

James says, "Helping me dress is a good thing. Leif has said to me more than a few times…" He mimics a stern Leif. "'You're not going out wearing that.'"

Em says, "Well, he can rest easy that I'll be doing that now, but I'll be nicer about it."

I laugh. "She has said things like that to me, too, but it's true, she is nice about it. It will come in the form of a _suggestion."_

We have already finished one bottle of the champagne, so I get up to retrieve another one from the fridge.

"Speaking of which," Em watches me as I return to the table with Leif taking the bottle from me to open. "I noticed you and Leif matched last night with your lavender dress and his lavender tie. And tonight even more so. You have an almost exact girly version of his clothes on."

How did I not see that? I sit down fast. Leif's inscrutable mask slips for a moment and he looks as disconcerted as I feel.

"You have a charcoal colored skirt. He has charcoal colored jeans. And you both have on white shirts and brown belts and brown shoes," she says happily. "Even his cuff is similar to your watch."

I glance at his wrist as he's opening the bottle and he has on that same brown leather bracelet that I glimpsed on the elevator. Now, I see, it has some kind of metal insignia on it that I can't make out because Leif moves his arm. It does sort of look like my grandmother's watch with its leather band.

"You're right!" James exclaims. "I hadn't noticed, but they do match!"

Okay, I so need off this subject. I scan my mind for something. Anything!

"And another thing about Em, she has her own language that I call Southern Gothica, and if she ever says, 'Bless your little heart, you don't know enough to come in out of the rain,' as precious as she'll make it sound, it is a total put-down. But that said, I've never heard her cuss. Ever. She doesn't even like the word 'cuss,' although 'curse' is okay."

"What about you? Do you curse?" Leif has that challenging look on his face again that makes me bristle.

"Like a sailor," I meet his stare. "I just tend to do it in other languages, so most people don't know what I'm saying. Such as _pendejo_. Or, say, _kusottare." _I add, which roughly translates to the same thing, only in Japanese.He smirks again as if he knows what that means.

James laughing, "I don't know any foreign languages to speak, even though I took Latin in secondary school, but I sure learned some colorful Portuguese profanity from Leif that first summer with him in Massachusetts."

My mind puts it all together…Massachusetts…Portuguese. I look at Leif, blurting out, "You're Cape Verdean!"

"Half," he nods.

"What's Cape Verdean?" Em asks.

"Cape Verde is a Portuguese-speaking island country off the western coast of Africa. There's a huge community of Cape Verdean immigrants in New England," I explain.

Leif tilts his head, looking at me, almost…impressed, I think.

"What else should I know about Em?" James asks.

"Let's see…She likes old movies. And she has a favorite _everything. _Favorite color, favorite smell, favorite meal, favorite fruit, favorite flower, favorite _everything._ You've probably already learned some of them, but that's another thing I'll leave you to find out for yourself."

"Sounds like fun to me," James smiles delightedly at Em, before turning back to me. "You two met at college, I know, but how did you both come to choose Stanford? It's all the way across the country for both of you."

The fraught look is back on Em's face. She told me soon after we met that the reason she chose Stanford was that she wanted to sow her wild oats—find out who she was—far, far away from her Southern family.

"She chose it because of the good business school," I say quickly, only answering the question for Em, not myself, glad to see the relief in her face. I'm not lying; that was _one _of her reasons, albeit secondary. "And she is very serious about the fashion business she wants to start. She wants the world to be more beautiful."

Em must now confident enough of me not to say anything too embarrassing about her, because she picks up our salad and appetizer plates—we've all finished the starters—and gets up from the table. She is so different tonight than she usually is. She would normally be owning the conversation, setting its course, leading it. But so far she is pretty much sitting quietly, passively; sort of like how I usually am. This role reversal is strange. Or maybe it's just that we've been talking specifically about her.

"I'm so sorry. I'm being an awful hostess!" I start to get up as well. I think of my grandmother, who would do all this so effortlessly.

"No, you stay. James and I will get the dinner," she calls out from the sink.

"So my girl likes beautiful things," I see James join her at the sink, giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Frivolous things," Leif qualifies quietly.

I turn back to him my ire all up again. It's one thing to try to find fault with me, but I won't let him do it to my friend. A groundswell of protectiveness for Em overtakes me.

"I have to say that I've always enjoyed watching when someone, anyone—although it's usually _boys,_" I emphasize the word dismissively, but keep my voice low, "underestimates Emory because she wants to go into fashion. Or because she's blond and pretty and Southern. They quickly learn she's not just some delicate flower."

I meet Leif's eyes in challenge, my smile going caustic. "She is very smart and very serious." I glare at him. "And if I gave the impression that she just likes beautiful things, I misstated. She wants to _make _the world more beautiful, which is a very different thing. Change people's lives through empowering them, and the form that that will take is through a fashion _business_."

I am on a roll now, determined to wipe that smirky, self-important look off his face…his beautiful, compelling face.

"But that's not all—it's not just the people who will _buy_ her clothes one day. She wants to elevate the lives of the people who will work at her company. She's already researched insurance programs and childcare and thought over the vibe she wants to create in her business."

"The _vibe_?" Leif snorts smugly.

"Yes, the _vibe!" _I snap, albeit with a low voice, glad Em and James, busy with the food, can't hear us. "She wants to create a positive work environment, wants people to be gratified in every possible way to work there. And she's not waiting for when she can start the business to help people create this in their lives. She and her mother both have long-since volunteered at a battered women's shelter in Atlanta, helping women in peril get back into the world, get jobs. Helping them dress for success, for empowerment. There is nothing _frivolous _about that! And even if it was, and it _isn't…_can you tell me what's wrong with frivolity? Are you part German or something? Must everything in the world be heavy and fraught and humorless?" Like _you _apparently are, but I don't actually say that. "Hmm? So, tell me? What's wrong with _frivolous_?"

This is an argument Bea has made to me too many times to count when I dismiss some hot new song as frivolous, but now I've switched sides. She is always askingwhat's wrong with frivolous. I used her usual question to me and I know she would laugh to hear me parrot her words. Leif doesn't reply, just like I never do when Bea asks me. The suppressed snarky humor I see in his face just fuels my anger.

My smile turns falsely sweet as I keep going. "You seem to really enjoy _fashion, _too, Leif. What with your leather bracelet and your perfectly-cut clothes. And your…" I can't remember the designer of those boots, so I ask Em, who is now setting platters on the table. "Who was the designer of Leif's boots?"

"Alexander McQueen," she says, heading back toward the oven. "I really like them. They're beautiful."

"Right," I snap, "your _Alexander McQueen_ boots. So you certainly seem to think it important to spend a ridiculous amount of money on _shoes_. Are _you _frivolous?"

"You're right," James is putting another dish on the table—gosh, how much did they get from that expensive restaurant? "Our boy is always so well turned out." He hadn't heard most of what I said to Leif.

"You seem to pay a lot of attention to my boots," Leif smirks at me. I only realize now that by bringing this up, I had tacitly admitted to having talked to Em about those ship-embossed boots that he's wearing again tonight.

I don't say anything back. For a moment, I'm aghast that I scolded him like that, but am glad that both James and Em do not seem to notice that this conversation has turned into some kind of weird contest between Leif and me. I really need to drop this thing now, get my equilibrium back and quit letting him get under my skin. Somehow, even with him being a _pendejo, _I still feel that tidal pull to him and this realization bugs the hell out of me.

"One thing I learned is that Emory has a real advocate in you," James says to me, handing yet another bottle of wine to Leif to open—we are going through this wine like water. "That's always good to have in a friend."

"That's because she is so good and kind and a true friend. My first real girlfriend, or…you know…friend who is a girl, I should say."

Em beams at me as she sets yet another platter on the table. She has cut all the entrees into quarters for us to share. "Go ahead and start filling your plates. I just need to grab one more serving spoon."

James passes the ravioli to me. "This all looks so gorgeous."

Leif is filling everyone's glasses again. His piercing stare is back. "You don't have many friends."

It's really more of a statement than a question, but this time he doesn't seem to be issuing a gauntlet. He actually seems _interested. _

"Not my age," I answer truthfully. "I didn't grow up around a lot of kids and was really only in proper school for about two years prior to college." Plus, my grandparents were always my best friends, but I'm not about to say that; I don't want him digging further into my family.

"Emory is your only good friend your age?" he asks, kind of _nicely._

"I have one other really close friend from the short time I was in high school, but he's in college in France, so we mostly write to each other now."

"He?"

I nod. "As I said, Em is my first real friend who is a girl. I mean _great _friend. I have other school friends in study groups and…you know…" I trail off, disconcerted again by the change in him.

"He's a boyfriend?" Leif asks, his eyes drilling into me again.

I guess he doesn't remember what Em said last night about never having had one. Dammit if my face doesn't turn pink just thinking about that.

"You must be talking about Ito," Em slides back in the banquette. "I've only met him once when we were sophomores, but I think he'd like to be her boyfriend, although Elle would disagree with that."

Emory winces at the look on my face, realizing, I think, that she has come dangerously close to the embarrassing things she said about me last night. She mouths "I'm sorry," across the table at me as she passes one of the platters around.

I mouth back, "It's okay." And truly, it is because I'm choosing to make it be okay. I concentrate on filling my plate with all this wonderful food, taking quarters of the chicken and steak and fish, but I can't help but think that I would never have told Ito about the elevator incident—at least not the full version—like I told Em. But maybe it's just easier to tell stuff like that to a girl-friend then a guy-friend, I'm not sure. I don't have a lot of experience with friends.

We all dig in to dinner, silent for a while.

Em says, "I've learned some about James in the three and a half dates we've been on so far, but now I think Leif has to tell me all of James' deepest darkest secrets. It's only fair." Honestly, if Em were her usual self she would've ferreted everything out already after one date.

"I would hide nothing from you," James replies easily. They share another intimate smile before he turns to Leif. "So, have at it, man."

Leif is quiet a moment, cutting into a piece of steak. "He is the best natural analyst I know. He can put numbers together into a viable investment plan like no one else."

We wait. He doesn't say anything else, quietly chewing, his face hidden behind that inscrutable mask.

"That's it? Seriously!?" Em protests. "Boys, I swear! They do not have the sense God gave them." She shakes her head in exasperation. When she starts giggling, I cannot help but smile. "Obviously, I'll have to lead them out of the desert by the hand." She takes a deep breath, turning to Leif. "Okay, we'll start with the basics. Um…How old were you two when you first met?"

"When we met, James was thirteen and I was twelve."

Em exclaims what I'm thinking. "You're younger than James?!"

James shrugs. "I know. No one ever believes that, but I am nearly a year older than he is."

No way! I look between the two boys…men. Leif looks so much older. I remember Emory telling me that James was twenty-four. That means Leif is…

"You're only twenty-three!" I practically hiss at him. An immediate flash from last night comes to my mind when Leif said that about my being a teenager in the same accusatory way. But gosh, he looks twenty-six or seven, maybe even older.

He pierces me with his stare. "If you want to find fault with me, surely you're intelligent enough to do that using something more imaginative than how long I've been on this earth."

It's like a slap. I've never seen such arrogance! There's a fault right there. Seeing my hurt expression, he looks momentarily contrite. But then the mask comes over his face again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see James give Leif a harsh look. Em, not noticing, continues. "If I remember correctly, you two met at school, right? But you seem like you're each from different worlds."

I'll say! The nice Englishman and the haughty, pompous, compelling, self-righteous, disdainful…little…overweening…proud…_jaku_…narcissistic, snobby, beautiful, jerky…bad boy _tingju_ from the other side of the tracks who probably doesn't eat so he can buy expensive _shoes_!

Well…there goes my nascent attempt not to let him get to me.

It is James who answers. "I'm afraid I'll have to tell you the story, because I know Leif won't do it properly. He will be too kind to me."

I make an unfeminine snort. "Too kind?" As if. Leif narrows his eyes at me.

James doesn't catch my sarcasm. "Yes, he is always too kind to me," he states. "He will just say that we met on a beach in Massachusetts to make me look good, but it was more than that. It was actually prior to being in school together that we met."

I see Leif give a subtle shake of his head to James who says, "But perhaps that will be a story for another day. I will say that we were friends immediately, even though we are, as you said, from different worlds."

"Elle and I were the same way, even though we're so different in so many ways."

Leif asks, "Such as?"

"Well...she always wants to walk everywhere. Me, I would drive down the block if I could." She giggles as she turns toward Leif, "In fact, I know James said you showed her home last night and I bet she balked at taking a cab."

Leif is staring into my eyes with a silent question that I somehow know is, _You didn't talk to your friend about the church garden? _

I shake my head just a little in answer to Leif. Em seems to take that as acknowledgement that we walked. "See! You walked. She drives me crazy walking all over town by herself in the dark. Every morning before sunrise she walks in the dark up to her grandfather's!"

I look down as Em continues. How in the hell did this conversation come back to talking about me?

"But that said, I've never once seen her stumble or fall, ever. She can even run in high heels. It's kind of crazy, actually."

I immediately turn red. I know what she's trying to do in saying that—let Leif know that I'm usually pretty graceful—but all it does is bring up the elevator humiliation again. In a purely defensive measure, I down my glass of champagne, looking anywhere but across the table.

"And I've never seen her drunk. She is definitely _not _a party girl. "

Leif raises an eyebrow after just watching me chug back my whole glass…and seeing it last night, too.

"In fact, the only way I ever got her to go out at school was via dragging her by the hair. Or, as she would say, _coordinating _her."

"I dragged you out sometimes, too!" I did. I remember it well.

"Yes, but only to special lecture events like that one we went to about the Greenbelt movement in Africa, when your granddad was visiting. Or that documentary on that Afghan interpreter…what was his name?"

"Ajmal Naqshbandi. That film was fascinating, though, wasn't it?" Okay, this is solid ground. I can handle this.

"Actually, it was. And even more so were the stories your grandfather told afterwards about some of his own experiences. But what I'm talking about is going out for anything purely social. You know…with actual students, where you drink cheap beer in plastic cups and talk loudly over the music and dance and stuff."

"I just don't find much in common with _kids,_" I mutter, mostly to myself.

"Ellawyn is shy?" Leif asks Em, his eyes on me. I am conscious of the way he says my name. I want to hear it again from his lips.

"No. I wouldn't say shy. Just quiet. There's a difference." Em ponders this, before adding. "When she knows people well, is within her family or close circle or whatever, she is talkative. But until then she's quiet. And observant. It took me awhile to get her to open up to me when we first met."

"Such different personalities and yet you were fast friends," James says brightly. I love the fact that he's always putting such a positive spin on everything and everyone. So unlike _his_ friend.

"You're right," Em says. "I think we became friends because we just accepted who each other was. Elle didn't see me as just a frilly southern deb like most people do. I didn't see her as just some quiet girl from nowhere and everywhere. I remember meeting her for the first time and just knew that she would accept me no matter what I became."

It's funny, but if I were to describe why we became friends, I would do it in a completely different way. I would say that she _Coordinated_ me right into it. I didn't have any experience with girlfriends and one day she introduced me to a girl in one of her business classes as "my best friend, Elle." I remember wondering if I'd passed some kind of best friend test or met a set of strict criteria that I wasn't aware of. Either way, I can't deny two things: one is that it made me feel accepted, and two, just like I told James earlier, my life is better for it. I just hope hers is, too.

"I think that very acceptance is why Leif and I became such good friends, as well. He wasn't just the poor bastard from down the way and I wasn't just the poncy Viscount. That acceptance is invaluable."

James is a _Viscount? _Em didn't tell me that, or maybe she didn't know. She might not even know what that is. But my mind really grabs onto the word James used to describe Leif. Did he mean bastard _literally? _As in, a boy without a father? I want to ask, but can't seem to find a way to do it delicately. I should get The Coordinator to ferret it out later. Or better yet, The Controller. As annoying as Em can be in that mode, she is also relentless. I file it away among the many other questions I have about him.

"Yes! When I cry at movies, Elle just hands me a tissue and lets me do it without judgment." She obviously doesn't remember the time I snickered at her when she cried during that frivolous movie, _Step Up_. "But I've never seen her cry once, at anything! Or cause drama. Or raise her voice. Or get mad."

Again, I know what she's doing. She's trying to let them know that my drama queen moment from last night was an anomaly. But all this does is bring it to mind again and embarrass me, although tonight I can handle it better after the talk with Henry. I will lean in, even though I'm not really sure how.

Maybe the most unsettling thing about this is that Em is always socially pitch-perfect—she would normally understand all the more subtle ramifications of what she was saying. But not tonight, and not last night either. I really need to find some alone time to talk about what's going on with her.

"Oh, wait a sec!" Em adds. "I have seen her really mad once, but you almost wouldn't have known it. She just stomped around our townhouse in Palo Alto and got really quiet—more quiet than usual."

I have no idea what she's talking about.

She looks at me, "Remember? When you got an A-minus on that one paper in that international relations class because the professor said one small point of historical fact you'd made was incorrect?"

Oh.

"And you knew he was wrong, so you went around to the history department and got two professors to write up something that proved you were right, remember? That's the bull-headed Taurus in her."

Still looking at Em, I can feel those other eyes burning into me.

"He had to change her grade!" she says admiringly. "Elle can take more classes than anyone I know and still make all A's. Some quarters she would have to get permission from the advisor for her extra load of classes."

When Em pauses, I try to find something to say to lighten up this subject; to put an end to this. Even though it's not as bad as last night, it's still strange having someone talk about you like this. I've never much thought about how I'm viewed from the outside, until last night and now. Until I'm hyper-aware of this man sitting opposite me.

"You make me sound like an over-bearing, unemotional robotic automaton." I try for breezy, but I'm not even close.

"I don't think so," the silken voice says from across the table. I won't look at him. Well, except for that long moment when my eyes moved to his face of their own accord. I'm flummoxed because I think all I see in them right now is…a_cceptance._

"Not at all," James adds. "Leif was similar in school. It just shows that you're hardworking and serious about what you do."

"She is!" Em exclaims. "When she graduates, she'll have several minors and probably two majors with her diploma."

Oh, merde! I've not told Em yet. I'm going to have to ease into this, explain. I'll wait until we can talk alone.

James says kindly, "Your parents must be very proud."

My eyes go to Em and she looks dumbstruck, too. She obviously hasn't said anything to James or Leif about my parental status.

She starts, "Well, um…"

I give her a subtle shake of my head, shutting her down, not unlike how Leif stopped James. I just really don't want to go there right now—my parents seem to be coming up all the time now.

Em says soberly, "Her _family_ is very proud."

I take another big gulp of wine. Over my glass I see Leif's eyes burning into mine.

That reminds me. "Oh, I almost forgot…my grandfather asked me to invite you all to lunch tomorrow, but I'm sure you're all busy on a Sunday afternoon and I told him so."

"I'm sorry, I can't," I hear Leif say to my utter relief as I take his empty plate. I note that following hard on the heels of that relief is also a little disappointment that I won't see him tomorrow. But mostly, it's relief. I think.

"We'll go," Em says. "I'd like James to meet my unofficially-adopted grandfather, who also happens to be my favorite grandfather." Em still has all her grandparents.

"See," I smile at James. "This is one of the other things The Coordinator does; accepts invitation for you without asking first." Now that I know Leif can't come, I'm fine that Em and James are.

Em shoots me a look, but I see the humor behind it. "Would you mind going tomorrow, James?" Her Southern accent is in full swing.

"Of course. I'd love to," James says prudently before turning to me. "I trust he's doing better?" His face is full of real concern.

"Every single day," I say smiling.

I take another big gulp of champagne just for something to do. Over my glass I see Leif's eyes burning into mine.

"Like drinking stars," I declare, just for something to say as I put my glass down. He looks perplexed. "My grandmother told me once that the inventor of champagne described it as, 'Like drinking stars.'"

Em and Leif's eyes lock on something over my head just as I hear a familiar voice behind me, "Truer words were never spoken about my favorite elixir!"

I turn around in my chair, smiling, as a tall thin man in his sixties saunters in. He is dressed in tight yellow jeans, a sparkly yellow shirt and a green scarf around his neck. He has on lavender ballet flats. The bottle blonde of his hair matches his shirt.

"Hey, Patrick! I didn't know you were back!"

"Last night. And, it's Patrice now."

"We've missed you as our doorman since you've been on your grand tour!" I get up to hug him. "You look very…springy!"

"That was exactly my intent. I am channeling daffodils."

He looks at the three sitting at the table, "Hello Miss Magnolia," he says to Em, who looks almost pained. She brings a smile to her face with effort. I don't understand this at all. She and Patrick have always enjoyed each other.

But I can't think about it further because he takes my attention. "I see it's date night at The Rambler."

"James, Leif, I'd like you to meet our downstairs neighbor…uh…Patrice?"

"I'll settle for Pat for now."

James stands, holding out his hand, smiling his sweet smile. "James Ransdell. Nice to meet you, Patrice."

"A young English prince! Don't you and Ella go well together!"

I wince. "James is Emory's boyfriend."

"Oh," he says, turning to Leif, "So this handsome young man must be _your…_"

I interrupt him, "Leif is James's friend." And once again I feel my face go aflame. I slide back into my chair.

Leif half stands on his side of the banquette, reaching his arm over the table, "Leif Vincent."

"Like a young god!" Pat exclaims as I gulp. So it's not just me. "Leif, is it? What a wonderful name. Were you made for dancing?" He sees our baffled expressions, adding, "Sorry. A seventies song reference. That's what happens when you hang out at Aunt Bea's all night." Pat turns to me.

"Listen…I've been sent to bring you all over because Bea has long since finished her radio show and will not let us cut the cake until you arrive. The twins and an NYU friend of theirs are over, as well as Mrs. Babushka and more are expected, apparently. And if you don't come soon and dance with me, I swear I will not be able to stop myself from holding Mrs. Babushka down and forcibly waxing off her mustache. I can barely contain the urge now, that thing is its own country."

Patrick reaches over to the ice bucket, picking up the bottle to look at the label. "Oh, this is good stuff! If you have any more of this, bring it and we'll drink stars together. You might also want to bring any leftovers for the starving college students, too. I'll give you five minutes, which should be enough time to explain me as soon as I've gone. Just make it good."

I smile up at him, "But Pat, you defy explanation."

"Merci, sweetheart." He leans down to kiss me on the forehead, then gazes around the table. "So much beauty in all of you! Oh, to be young again." he says wistfully and turns to go, taking the bottle with him. "I mean it! Five minutes or the mustache is gone!" he calls out as he breezes out of the kitchen.

After a beat, Leif and James' eyes turn to me, questioningly. Seeing their faces, Em starts laughing and I have to chuckle, too, as we get up to clear the table.

"Patrick was the most buttoned up, conservative and quiet librarian you've ever seen. He and his widowed father lived on the second floor of this building for ages. Grandmother always called him a 'confirmed bachelor.' When Patrick retired from the library, he used to sit at that desk in the lobby, our unofficial doorman, just to get some space from Mr. Murphy, I think. He probably never even told his father he'd retired and after Mr. Murphy died last year, we started noticing Pat was painting his nails. Pink and lavender and gold and silver. Then he started wearing bejeweled flip-flops with his suits and then that morphed into the flower you see now." Em winces again.

"He still sits at the lobby desk a lot of the day, reading, but he's been on a grand tour of Europe for the last couple months."

I take the plates that are in each of their hands, putting them on the island. "We'll leave all this here and I'll clean up later. Better not keep them waiting."

"So he…came out of the closet, as they say?" James asks.

"Well, no, not really. He's never said and we try not to classify him. He's just Pat…or Patrice, now." I chuckle at this and add, "Funny you should mention coming out of the closet, though, because the Murphy's old apartment was just a one bedroom, but it had a big closet off the kitchen, like maid's quarters or whatever, and that's where Patrick slept. As soon as one opened up, he moved to a different apartment on the fourth floor. It's very…uh…_bright."_

"Well he seems like a fine character," James says so sincerely and once again I'm struck by his goodness.

"He is. I think he's still figuring out who he is and who he wants to be. I guess he just couldn't be who he truly was until his father was gone."

I retrieve another couple bottles of champagne from our wine closet, putting them in the fridge. "I'm going to put some more champagne to chill, because these last bottles you guys brought will go fast if we take them next door. And you know you three can stay over if you want. We have plenty of guest rooms."

The thought of Leif sleeping here is instantly both unsettling and thrilling.

"Elle," Em says, consolidating the considerable leftover dinner onto two platters. "Should we _explain_ Mrs. Babushka to them as well?" she asks, chuckling. "Or just let these boys fend for themselves?"

I look over at James guileless face, then to Leif's. He's got that challenging smirky expression again. I turn back to Em with my own snarky smile, which is my only answer.


	17. Chapter 17

_**16…Frivolities…**_

When we walk over to Bea's, there are no shoes outside in the hall, so I know she must be relaxing her no-shoes rule tonight. She does that when a dance party breaks out.

Music is playing softly, but the living room is empty of everyone, but for one corner just next to Bea's shrine to DJ John Peel. We go first to a table against one far wall that's holding a lovely cake, plates, forks and napkins as well as a large bowl with beers on ice. We make room to fit the leftover platters and champagne on it.

James looks around the room. "Wow." Her apartment is pretty stunning, especially the first time you see it. Now, though, all the furniture is moved against the walls.

"Bea doesn't mind if you go explore the place if you want. But let's go meet Mrs. Babushka first." I lead them over to the corner with a niche made by a coat closet, farthest from all the activity. In it are two very modern-looking glider chairs, which only seems to highlight how ancient the woman is who's sitting in one of them. She is wearing a faded cotton dress with a small flowery print on it that, contrary to what I joke about Bea's caftans, is the very definition of _housedress. _She's also got worn out sensible shoes, a ratty black sweater and a scarf on her head, tied in that Eastern European way. And yes, there is that moustache. I never see her look any other way. Petal is curled up on a dog bed near her feet, but looks up when we approach with a quick wag of her tail.

We stop in front of her chair as Mrs. Babushka glances at me briefly, then looks straight ahead, rocking just a little.

"You've met Emory, but I'd like to introduce her boyfriend, James Ransdell. This is Mrs. Babic," I pronounce it in the Serbian way, as my grandparents did, like Babitch, only thicker.

"Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Babic." James puts his hand out to shake, smiling sweetly. She ignores it.

Now I feel badly for not telling them that she never really acknowledges anyone other than an occasional furtive glance. Em grabs James' hand out of the air, bringing it to her side.

"And this is his friend, Leif Vincent, Mrs. Babic." I gesture to him standing next to me. Her eyes flicker up to his face. And stay there.

What!?

She _never _makes eye contact! Not like this. And now she's holding it for several seconds, at least!

Leif is gazing at our wizened neighbor with an unreadable, sober expression on his face. "Mrs. Babic," is all he says, with one stern nod.

Mrs. Babic's eyes flick between Leif and me before she goes back to her thousand yard stare. But the weirdest thing is that her lips pull up into what I think is the smallest, subtlest of…smiles? Possibly? Or maybe it's a grimace—I can't tell. Strange, either way. I stare blankly at her for a moment before shaking my head to regain my composure.

I gesture to Petal, "And this is our wonderful dog, Petal. Petal, meet James and Leif." She pumps her tail a few times tiredly, then rests her head back on the edge of her cushy dog bed.

"Let us know if you need anything, Mrs. Babic," I say lamely as I lead our group away. I've never heard her speak, ever.

The twins and their friend are at the food table by now, and Pat and Bea come into the living room from the bedroom hallway, each carrying stacks of vinyl records and CDs. Bea is in a silver caftan with sequined music notes on it. It's actually really beautiful.

"Be there in a sec," she says, passing us to pile the records next to the turntables and computers on another table.

"That was so good," J, one of the twins, says, gazing appreciatively at the platters that have not a scrap left of the food we brought.

Heid, the other twin, says, "I hope that was for us."

I laugh, wondering how they polished all that off in the couple minutes while we were with Mrs. Babic and Petal. I hear the soft music fade out as Bea puts on a rock song I don't know and I do the introductions to the Gemini Twins.

"We're not really twins," Heid says brightly, which is obvious as she has medium brown skin with a gloriously huge afro and J is the color of parchment, but for his freckles, with light blonde hair shaved around the sides. They are wearing nearly matching outfits of jeans, vests, skinny black ties, button down shirts and Vans.

"And our last name's not really Gemini," J adds.

Bea interjects, joining our circle, "Your last name should be ADD."

I often think of them as Thing One and Thing Two.

"It's our stage name." J, again.

"We live downstairs," Heid says.

"In Pat's old apartment!" J exclaims.

"They've earned quite a name for themselves DJing at campus parties. I teach them about the history of music and they help keep me up to date on new. They're my protégées." Bea smiles indulgently at them. "Who eat me out of house and home."

"But it's a payoff because we do her web site," J says.

"And digitize all her music and old shows to the computer," Heid continues.

"Which will take years." J completes the sentence.

Bea interjects, sounding like a twin. "Which I pay you for."

"Yeah, but,"

"But some of them are on,"

"Get this!"

"Cassettes!"

"C-30, C-60, C-90,"

"Go!"

"And we pick up records for you at,"

"The record store."

"Can we have cake now?"

Bea gestures to the pale, tall boy with shaggy brown hair. "This is their friend, Adam, who also attends NYU."

The Gemini Twins talk over each other again.

"And he's in an indie band."

"Clearly."

"That hair screams hipster musician."

"Or sixth member of One Direction."

"That's what makes him beautiful."

"But he's really good."

"Do you study music at NYU?" Em asks him, cutting over the twins.

J and Heid don't let him answer. "He's a lit student."

"Poetry."

"Can we have cake now?"

"Which helps with songwriting,"

"And with the ladies."

Adam gives a shy smile and a shrug, blushing a bit. I empathize. Just a little behind him, Pat is opening more champagne, giggling.

Bea turns to James, smiling widely, "You must be that boy our little Miss Magnolia prattles on about. I'm Bea." Em makes a face at Bea while James and she shake hands. J and Heid start in again.

"You're _Aunt _Bea."

"Bea's too short of a name."

"But my name's just J."

"It suits you."

Now focusing on James, "Where are you from?"

"What music do you like?"

Bea shushes them with a look. "Actually, please do tell me what kind of music you like so we can play some of your favorites tonight."

"I'm from England," he answers the twins' question. "And I like…uh…" Poor James looks overwhelmed.

J and Heid again, "England's good—Beatles!"

"Stone Roses!"

"Tricky."

"Herman's Hermits."

"Mrs. Brown's daughter was lovely."

"No pressure or anything,"

"Dizzee Rascal. Yeah, no pressure,"

"But this is where we decide,"

"Whether to like you or not."

"Stop it!" Bea says to the twins, sounding like a harried mother. "Or you will not get any cake!"

I feel for James, who looks bewildered. The twins can do that to you when they're on a roll, although thank heavens, they're not like this all the time. As I watch James' face, I see him muster that sweet effervescence of his. "Well, I like…U2, Coldplay, Adele…"

The twins' eyes go dark. They've tuned him out. Not because they don't like those artists—they, like Bea, love every kind of music and don't discriminate based on hipster status—but because they have millions of fans already. It is _common. _It's not_ interesting_.

I want to kick them.

"And I like some of the old British ska…The Specials and Madness. But lately, I've kind of started trying out a new kind of music; new to me, I mean. I've been listening to some Southern American music. Southern rock and country and folk and even bluegrass. "

The twins eyes light up again, as do Em's, I notice; this is probably a testament to her Southern heritage. Pat sips his champagne, clearly enjoying all this theater.

"You get extra points for,"

"Being an Englishman and liking something so,"

"So unexpected,"

"Nice."

James seems relieved, but his reprieve is short-lived when the twins ask in perfect unison. "Do you have a theme song?"

"Sorry? A theme song?" James is perplexed again.

Bea answers, "What they're asking is if you had to pick a song as your theme, your anthem, what it would be?" This is a question Bea asks people sometimes upon first meeting them. The funny thing is she never answers it herself when anyone asks her back—at least not seriously. She always picks some cheesy, frivolous song as her answer, but I know she's not telling the truth.

"Do you mean a theme song for your life? Or…" James is at a total loss, but clearly trying to be a good sport.

"Not necessarily," Bea answers. "Maybe just for this today, or, say, this moment in your life."

"Um…" James glances over at Em. "Well, I think I would have to pick Coldplay's 'Yellow,' for right now." Em beams at him again.

"That's very nice of you," Bea says, looking between the two of them, knowing he's referring to Em's favorite color.

That decided, she turns to Leif. "And I've heard some about you, too, Leif."

"Actually, I go by Vince. Very few even know my first name."

Huh? He hasn't directed any of _us_ to call him Vince.

"Where are you from?" Bea asks.

"Near Cape Cod." He seems perfectly at ease.

The twins again… "Oh, Massachusetts! The Lyres."

"Black Light Dinner Party."

"The Gobshites!"

Bea's eyes briefly meet mine. The twinkle in them makes my mouth go dry. I narrow my eyes at her in warning, which only makes her grin wider.

Just to shut her up, I blurt out, "He's Cape Verdean."

Bea's expression becomes almost wondrous. "Oh! I _love_ Cape Verdean morna music! Cesaria Evora? You know of her?"

Leif shrugs, "An absolute and unparalleled _goddess_."

The twins again. "We don't know her."

"Will you play something of hers, Bea?"

"What's _morna_?"

She ignores them. "What other music do you like?"

"I like a lot of guitar stuff, singer-songwriters, even flamingo and gypsy guitar." The twins stare at him raptly as he continues. "But what is truly sacred music to me is the band, The Waterboys, especially their more Celtic songs."

"I agree they are divine. Not long ago I was having an online debate with one of my music nerd listeners about Mike Scott versus Karl Wallinger, but anyway, I digress." Her eyes flick over to me again, "And, speaking of _water_…funnily enough, this song I put on is in honor of both you and James."

I have no idea what this rock song playing now is, but pray in vain no one will ask.

The twins, of course. In unison again... "Who is it?"

"It's an English band, The Duke Spirit, from an album called Neptune." Bea explains, gazing at James, then Leif, as innocent as a shark. I brace myself. "This particular song is called 'Neptune's Call.' Neptune, of course, being _the god of the_ _sea_." She glances at me, practically wiggling her eyebrows like a silent movie villain.

I might just kick her.

I don't know what to do, what to say. I am awash in embarrassment once again. This would usually be the point that socially pitch-perfect Em might jump in to save me, smooth things over. I look over at her, but she is clutching James arm, looking off into space. Her disengaged stare is not unlike Mrs. Babushka's. I feel the urge to kick her, too.

Henry's voice rings in my head. _Feel it. Accept it. Own it. Lean right into those feelings. _All this takes just a second to process.

That seems to be the end of her villainy as Bea says, "I'm going to go pull some more records for tonight. You twins go ahead and cut into the cake, but for god sakes don't eat it all, and Elle, would you get more champagne glasses and the snacks I have baking out of the oven? And put in the ones ready to go next to the stove? There are more people coming." She disappears down the bedroom hall.

I stop for a moment, taking a breath, looking everywhere but at Leif…Vince, whatever. I head to the pristine white kitchen and am surprised to find Adam has followed me.

"Do you need any help?" He seems so earnest, and gosh, he really is nice-looking.

I pull a baking sheet with some kind of perfect little asparagus pastry things out of the oven. "I think Bea has it pretty much set up, but thank you. You can help me carry, though." I tilt the baking sheet, sliding everything onto one of a stack of plates Bea had left out by the stove. "Did you get the same musical inquisition the others did when you first arrived?"

"Uh huh, but the beauty of it is that the twins already knew what I liked, so they answered for me."

"They'll do that," I laugh. "Did you get asked the theme song question, too?" Only now do I realize that no one asked Leif that question, maybe because Bea was distracted by her ignoble quest to embarrass the hell out of me. I would really love to know his answer. As if I conjured him with my thoughts, Leif silently stalks into the kitchen and I pretend not to see him. He stops, hovering by the counter behind Adam, glaring, not saying a word.

"I did, but I think I would change my theme song answer right now if I was asked again."

"Change it how?" I pull out the second baking sheet.

"Well, I said that it was Dylan's 'Like A Rolling Stone,' but now I'm not so sure. I'm thinking I might change it to The Beatles 'I Saw Her Standing There.' You know it?" He blushes so deeply at this, looking down at the stove door.

"I'm sure I do, Bea plays a lot of Beatles, but can't think of it right now." I can't think of _anything _right now. And the reason is that Leif's glare behind Adam has turned murderous, wiping out my functioning brain. I don't know what the hell his problem is.

"What's yours?" Adam asks.

"What's my what?"

"Your theme song."

"Oh. I just…I don't…"

"Sorry, didn't mean to put you on the spot." Adam shakes his head, smiling. "It's an interesting concept though, isn't it? Asking someone their theme song."

"Bea has a lot of interesting concepts," I say sarcastically. "She thinks a theme song says a lot about a person."

"Your Aunt Bea might be right." Adam nods as I busy myself, arranging the appetizers on the plate. "Do you…um…dance?" he asks shyly.

"You cannot have grown up in my family without dancing, so yes, I do. You?" I pull another baking sheet out of the oven, piling the contents on another plate, then put the waiting appetizers into the oven to bake.

"Depends on the song, but save me a dance, okay? A slow one; that's about all I'm good for."

"Will you carry these out and I'll take the champagne flutes?"

When Adam takes the plates and turns to go back to the living room, he almost bumps into Leif. "Oh. Sorry, dude. I didn't see you there."

Leif doesn't say anything, but follows us out of the kitchen.

The overhead lights in the living room are now turned off and Bea's mirror ball and disco lights are on, transforming the room into a dance club. Bea is at her turntable, cuing up a song.

After I've put the glasses down on the table, Pat grabs me. "I get the first dance." He always loved dancing with my grandmother and I know he misses her. Pat and Rosamunde dancing together were the picture of grace—our very own Fred and Ginger. I know I'm a sorry second, but will always dance with Pat when he asks.

Bea's voice comes over the speakers. "This first is a Patrice request that I'm sure Ellawyn will balk at. She is always complaining about frivolous things, but can never answer me when I ask her what's wrong with frivolity."

This time, I know Bea did not do this on purpose—she was not privy to that conversation with Leif where I admonished him on Em's behalf, taking Bea's usual position. Pat holds out his hand when the song starts and I gratefully take it knowing it will keep me occupied for a few minutes and excuse my flaming face.

As Pat spins me around disco-style to this frivolous song, I notice James and Em as well as the twins have joined us on the makeshift dance floor. Leif is leaning against one wall, smirking, of course, as Adam stands by the food table, nursing a beer, watching Pat and me.

When there aren't many people here, as part of the twins' musical history lesson, Bea tends to call out over a microphone the title and artist of at least every few songs. She does this now as the song starts to fade. "That was _Leif _Garrett's 'I Was Made For Dancing,' from 1978. Hopefully, that wasn't too frivolous for you, Elle!"

Jeez!

"This next one is a slightly more modern dance song, from the nineties by English band St. Etienne. A brilliant cover of a Neil Young song…" I tune her out as the new song melds with the ending chords of the last, which is one of Aunt Bea's DJing talents—that woman can mix some completely disparate songs seamlessly so you can barely tell where one starts and the other ends.

Pat keeps me dancing and I have to admit it is kind of fun. My skirt swirls around me as the music takes over.

Midway through the new song, Pat, breathing heavily, releases me saying, "Forgive me, but I've spent too many weeks eating cream pasta and drinking grappa and I need to catch my breath. I'm so out of practice." He kisses my cheek and walks toward the food table, picking up his champagne glass. I follow along behind him. Em and James are still dancing, as are the twins. Adam has gravitated over to Bea at the turntable and I am hyper-aware of a different set of eyes burning through my back.

I decide that now is the perfect time to run back to The Rambler to take the now-empty platters we brought over with our leftovers and I can also pick up some more champagne from our fridge. I load up my arms and quickly scurry out the door.

I've got the refrigerator door open, pulling out two bottles, and I know, _I know_ when I close this door, what, or I should say, _who, _will be waiting when I turn around. I can feel him. I shut the door, shivering. I am not wrong.

He's leaning against the island, smirking.

"So…you don't like frivolity." Why is his voice so damn beautiful? "But apparently, you do you enjoy spouting opinions that are not your own." His smirk has done the service of wiping out my embarrassment.

"I can't decide which of your two expressions is your natural resting state." As he tilts his head quizzically, I add, "Smirking or glaring. That's all you seem to do—smirk or glare. Glare or smirk." I am so pleased with how I sound—all cool and unaffected. Maybe I'm getting the hang of this whole new leaning into the embarrassment thing. I am practically patting myself on the back for my new control. "Maybe _Vince's_ is the smirk. And _Leif's_ is the glare. Or vice versa. Who knows? It's a mystery!" I shrug blithely.

One side of his mouth tugs up into a half-smile and for a moment I don't see any trace of a smirk or glare in him. Instead, his eyes sparkle with humor.

I press down on my own burgeoning smile, saying. "Maybe if you stay over tonight, I'll have to sneak into your room to watch you sleep, to see if the smirk or glare is your natural state."

_Damn_! Total wrong thing to say! Because now, aside from it sounding mildly creepy, all I can think of is watching him sleep. His beautiful face in repose, maybe dreaming. I shut that down, looking away—the kitchen sink instantly transforms into the most fascinating thing I've ever seen!—but not before my face goes pink. So much for my nascent mastery.

My eyes go back to Leif's. He's got a brand new look. One that I might describe as…_burning? _

I have that feeling again of being adrift.

We stay like that, our eyes locked, until I hear a tentative voice in the hallway—Adam's. From the sound of it he's standing near The Rambler's open front door. "Ellawayn?" I thrust both of the champagne bottles at Leif, which he takes; his hand briefly touches mine in the process causing a wave of heat to rip up my arm and then through my entire being.

Definitely not so cool and unaffected.

The tentative voice again, closer. "Ellawyn?" Adam's head appears in the kitchen doorway and I pull my eyes from those deep pools of ocean water. "Just getting some more champagne!" I go to step around Leif, toward the door.

He's glaring again, at Adam.


	18. Chapter 18

_**17…Passing In The Night…**_

Back at Bea's, there are newcomers. Lots of them; this is turning into a full-fledged dance party. There are several more friends of the twins, it would seem, college-age kids, grouped around the food and drinks. And some others from our building, mostly older, in their forties and fifties. I greet the ones I know, starting with Mr. Pantano and his teenage son, Mason, who, live below Bea. They tell me they were coming in from a sushi dinner out and got caught up in the elevator with some of the newly arriving college kids. They have long-since sworn that they cannot hear Bea's sound system from their apartment, but I have a hard time believing that, especially when there are so many people here and it is so damn loud. But then again, we can't hear it when our door's shut and we're right next to Bea's. They ask after Henry and I say he is "away," at the moment. This is not unusual for him, so they accept it without further question. I mingle on, waving to others I know. Adam sticks by my side. Pat is dancing with another lady from his floor. This large space is getting almost crowded. I decide to check on the appetizers in the oven since Bea is more than occupied and because this crowd is almost becoming too much for me. Adam follows me and we chat easily for a few minutes in the relative quiet of the kitchen as I bustle around, pulling out more plates from the cabinet.

"So, can I ask you something?"

"Of course," I pull out one of the baking sheets.

"Um…Is that intense guy your boyfriend?"

_What? _I lean down to pull out the next one, taking my time, almost hiding my face in the oven, the heat from it blasting me.

I don't need to ask which guy he means.

"No, he's Emory's boyfriend's friend is all. I just met him a few days ago. Why?" Oh, I wish I hadn't tagged that question on to the end.

"Well, I was just…um, wondering…because…um…he seems to kind of follow you around…and…I saw his face when he was watching you dance…and…uh, I…uh…wanted to see if…uh…I could…" He spits the rest out in a rush. "I-could-ask-you-out-would-you-go-out-with-me-some time-maybe?"

Oh Dios mio, that's unexpected. By rote, I start to say that my class load is too demanding and I don't have the time, before it hits me that that isn't true any longer. I look up with my mouth hanging open and he is blushing so hard, not meeting my eyes. I feel for him as that, too, seems to be my near-constant state lately. But that isn't really what makes me decide to say yes. It's that from my peripheral vision, I see Leif has stalked into the kitchen behind Adam—a repeat of last time except that he stays by the door—and is glaring at us. I pretend not to see him again.

"Yes." I don't think I am actually answering Adam's question, but a different, unasked one. "Sure, I'll go out with you sometime."

He lets out a breath slowly, relief clear on his face. "Great! I'll get your number before the end of the night," he sighs with both relief and a huge smile as Leif stalks back out of the kitchen. We take the appetizers and more beer out. All I can really think is…_Leif follows me around? _I add that to, _He's all enamored of some girl he met… Cindy, I think her name was?… I saw his face when he was watching you dance? _I'm not sure exactly what to make of it all, but putting those thoughts together is kind of…kind of…_exciting._

Em, her face flushed and smiling, is whirling around with Mason to a classic old song. James is dancing with Heid. I don't see Leif immediately, but when the dancing couples part for a moment, there he is on the dance floor with a pretty dark haired girl I don't know—probably one of the twins' friends. Adam at my side, I busy myself arranging the plates and beer on the food table, not sure why my stomach is in a knot.

As the current song starts a long instrumental fade, and the dancing couples slow, then stop, some breaking apart—including Leif and that stupid pretty girl—Bea's voice comes over the speakers. "This next is by a teenage artist from England who, it should be noted, is the same age as Justin Beiber. But from the old soul in this artist's songs—in his very being—he could be a perfect mating of early Dylan and someone's Appalachian great granddad. This is Jake Bugg's 'Country Song,' for our little English country boy, James."

That is another special talent of Bea's—finding out what you like music-wise, then expanding it, showing you new artists in that same vein.

Soft guitar chords start and I see James go to Em, pulling her close. As a heartbreakingly beautiful voice begins singing gently, Adam takes a step forward, tilting his head toward the dance floor, a question, holding out his hand to me. Behind him, I see that beautiful and clearly stupid girl put her arms around Leif's neck. I take Adam's hand just as Leif reaches up, removing that girl's arms, pulling away from her. She looks a little put out, the poor thing. That knot in my stomach loosens. Adam enfolds me in his arms and we start dancing. As we turn slowly, I see that same girl begin dancing with one of the twins' other friends—perhaps I've been ungenerous to her; she's probably not _that_ stupid. Leif is now leaning against a wall, scowling at me.

We turn a little more and Mrs. Babushka comes into my line of sight. She is scowling at me as well. _What?_ She turns her head a fraction to her right, toward the wall, toward Leif; now she seems to be scowling at him. Huh? There's a lot of scowling going on. Adam turns me a little more and I can't see Mrs. Babushka any longer, sure I must've misread her expression. As we turn slowly, I notice Pat is dancing with another of our building neighbors. Em and James are kiss-dancing. Another quarter turn and Leif is looming behind Adam.

"I'm cutting in," he commands. He pulls me toward him, easily disengaging Adam's arms from around my waist. The last thing I see before I rest my head against Leif's neck, closing my eyes and losing myself in this perfect song and his perfect scent, is the satisfied face of Mrs. Babushka.

The sweet slow guitar speeds up a little and I realize the music has seamlessly mixed into another song, without Bea's commentary. I hear a woman singing mournful words in a foreign language. This must be the goddess that Leif was referring to earlier. The word I hear most in the song sounds like, "_sodade." _Must be in Portuguese; I wish I knew what it meant. Leif keeps me close but his movements speed up into a kind of…_foxtrot?...tango?_ I open my eyes, following my body with his, never so glad as now that my grandmother taught me to do all kinds of dancing, even if I don't remember the names of them all. We whirl around slowly in perfect rhythm and before I know it, the mournful song has perfectly melded into another. Bea has taught me well because I know this one. It's Aztec Camera's "Stray." I close my eyes again and in what feels like moments, I hear Sam Cooke's "Bring It On Home To Me," one of the sexiest songs I know. Leif pulls me closer and I feel every inch of his body pressed against mine. We keep dancing.

I have never felt so absolutely _on fire _in my life.

The change into the next song is kind of jarring, and I know without looking that Bea did not do this mix. I'm jarred further when Leif stops, pulling away from me. _No! _I want back in his arms. I look up into his face to see that blistering look, then the glare.

"So, you're going out with the _poet?_" He might as well have said _axe murderer _for all the derision he infused in that last word.

I feel pain, loss, my face pleading, "Please don't ruin it for me." I don't mean anything having to do with Adam, just that I don't want him to ruin these last perfect minutes; the absolute beauty of dancing with him, the _aliveness _of it all, that delicate feeling of being _home. _

"He follows you around like a little puppy." His face looks absolutely disgusted.

"That's what he said about you." I say this in almost a whisper, not as an accusation, but in a kind of defeat. I just want go back in time, back in the bubble of our songs and his arms. My throat burns.

For just a second, Leif seems a little wounded, lost even, before the glare returns, or the scowl, or that new burning look; hell, I don't even know anymore. He stalks off, leaving me standing on the dance floor. Couples whirl around me. I notice Mrs. Babushka's chair is empty. I stare at it dumbly. That's how it always is with her—she appears and then disappears.

A voice next to me. "I would ask you to dance, but this song is too fast for me." Adam.

"That's okay, I desperately need..." I don't know what I need, really. "I need a drink." I let him lead me away by the hand.

I can't find my original champagne flute, so I pour a new glass only to find I don't want it. I ask Adam about his studies, his favorite poets. He tells me that poetry is only his minor. His major is film, but the twins only seem to remember poetry. I smile politely at his answers, but I don't really hear them; there might've been some mention of Blake and then the English Romantics, then Transcendentalists, but it all just sort of washes over me.

Bea appears next to us at the table in a dither, fussing over all the empty appetizer plates. One of the college kids, a boy, tries to grab a beer from the ice bowl and she slaps his hand away. "You're not twenty-one yet, Alex. You are welcome to have a soda."

The boy slinks away, chastened. Bea looks up to see Adam and I both watching her.

"This is crazy. It's not just the kids who are scarfing up everything I can put out, but the grown-ups, too!" Hearing her, one could think she's complaining, but the pride is so evident behind her words. She loves this.

"Keep an eye on things, will you?" She asks me or Adam, distractedly. "That boy who was just here, Alex and…" She points to another boy hovering at the turntables with J and Heid, "…that one with the twins, Josh, are the only ones here without their parents who are not twenty-one, so don't let them have any alcohol. Everyone else is fine." I don't know how she knows this. Both the twins and I are not legal yet either, but the twins don't drink and I don't count to Bea. "I'm going to go scare up some more snacks, it may take a while." Bea would never in a million years just throw out some chips and store-bought salsa. She takes her food too seriously.

Adam asks her, "Do you need help?" I wonder if he's trying to impress her. To be featured on one of her radio shows would be a real coup for his band.

"Sure!" she replies.

Adam turns to me, "You don't mind do you?" I shake my head and they disappear into the kitchen.

The boy I now know as Alex immediately slinks right back over to get a beer. I don't stop him. I lean against the wall next to the table, scanning the dancers. I don't see Leif through the crowd, but it's not like I'm looking for him or anything. When Frank Sinatra's voice comes over the speakers, I close my eyes, slightly swaying to the dulcet tones of "Someone To Watch Over Me." Behind my closed eyes, I picture a twelve-year-old boy with black hair and dark blue eyes. This would be the age that Leif was when he and James met.

Partway through the song, the entire front of my body heats up. I open my eyes to see the grown version of that face I was imagining leaning against the far wall by the open front door, staring at me with an unfathomable look of longing that is not unlike how I was picturing him as a skinny boy. His gaze is fixed on me and I stare back, steadfast, until I am drawn forward toward him as if he is my personal beacon. He doesn't move as he watches my approach, but looks almost stricken as I get closer.

When I'm just inches in front of him, I see he is almost bracing himself and I don't understand. He doesn't move, just stares down at me.

I stand on my tiptoes, put my arms around his neck, and lean in toward his lips. Strong arms curl around my waist pulling me closer and our lips briefly touch, just barely. Then those same arms push me away again and somehow we are dancing, our eyes locked. He looks away first and I follow his gaze to where Em and James are dancing nearby. Em's head on James' shoulder, a smile on her face. Both of their eyes are closed. The song ends and Leif immediately steps back a few feet, eager it seems, to get away from me.

The opening guitar chords of another song come through the speakers and the words, _If you're down and confused…_ It fades as the twins' voices speak over it, intruding on my ears; this is especially discordant coming so soon after Frank Sinatra.

"Here is the exact moment that our Aunt Bea,"

"Got her nickname from some kid,"

"Who was mauling the lyrics,"

"To a great song,"

"But that's okay because our Aunt Bea,

"Officially became _Aunt Bea_."

Vaguely, I think that both my grandparents and Bea have told me over the

years that_ I_ was the one who gave her that nickname, although I don't remember it. Another voice comes over the speakers. It takes me a moment to realize that the voice is mine. As a child. I am singing along to that seventies song, "Love The One You're With." You can hear it played low now behind my tuneless child's voice garbling the words. Instead of, "If you _can't be_…" I'm singing, "If your _Aunt Bea_ is the one you love, honey, love the one you're with!"

Hearing my voice is bad enough, but what freezes me to the spot are the laughing voices that come after.

A woman's voice, "Sing that last line again, Little Monkey!" The child me does, loudly. "If your Aunt Bea is the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." A man and woman's voice happily laughing. The woman's voice again, "One more time!" I comply. Then, the man. "There you have it, Beth. That should be your new radio moniker—Aunt Bea. It could almost be a cautionary tale, because if your Aunt Bea is _indeed_ the one you love…Ugh!...you should _definitely _love the one you're with." They laugh. Then Bea's voice, "I might be up for a little change. What do you think listeners? Call in to let me know if I should now become Aunt…" She must've broadcast it. I can't listen anymore.

My legs unlock as a veritable flash flood of feelings and memories almost blinds me—playing, laughing, happiness, security, then…dirt in my mouth. I get a sense of inner walls cracking, breaking down, stones clattering to the ground around me and I go stumbling out the nearby door into the fifth floor hallway.

I'm in a horror movie: The Rambler's open door, my door, seems to drift farther away the faster I plunge toward it. I make it more than halfway, I'm so close, before my knees give way and I crash to the floor on all fours. I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't hear a thing, but for a horrible roaring in my ears.

I am choking. I am drowning.

Those were my parents' voices.

I haven't heard those voices in thirteen years.

Inexplicably, two brown leather ships appear in front of my eyes. I think if I can flag one down, I can get help. I reach out for one of the ships. I put my hand over it, but that's as much as I can do. A lifeline that looks exactly like a strong golden arm curls around me and I am lifted to warmth and safety.


	19. Part 2 - Chapter 19

_**PART TWO **_

_**18…Conjuring…**_

I'm not so much walking but rather clomping heavily up the street toward the Rehab, trying to outpace my thoughts. I'm just so furious with myself. Last night's stupid ass dance party…and that almost-kiss…Merde!...I almost kissed him…Me!...Ugh!...And he pushed me away…And I have to see him at the office in a week. What the hell is _wrong _with me? And I collapsed after I heard...

I shove the voices of my parents back behind the walled garden in my mind. Where all those memories are buried. Where they belong. I am quite good at this segmentation. But damn if it's not getting harder since…I don't know when…the plane, maybe? I think I dreamed of my parents on the plane from China in the first time since forever, although I don't remember it really. Just a vague feeling of unease was all that's left. And then at Bea's that first night back. And heaven knows, last night, hearing them so happy and laughing and calling me Little Monkey…I don't even _like _monkeys.

Nope! Back behind the wall, dammit. I lock the heavy gate. Everything in its place. In. Its. Place. I'll think about something else.

Leif had lifted me up. And carried me back to the Rambler…

I could breathe again, big gasping breaths. I was on one of the living room sofas with my chin against my chest, head down, staring at my lap. It took a few minutes to understand what I was seeing there: my ice cold hands were warming, encased in Leif's beautiful warm ones. If I lifted my eyes just a little, I would see that he was kneeling in front of me. I did. There was a new look in his eyes that might well be mirroring mine—anguish.

Em's voice in the hall. "Lord have mercy, those were sure some fireworks. The living room lights are on, they must be in there. Go on in, I'm going to quick go grab some more champagne!"

That's not what made me bound right out of the shock I felt from hearing my parents' voices. It's that when James walked in the room and saw us—Leif's hands still enclosed over mine—the happy expression on his face became a mix of accusation and hurt. At Leif. James stopped just inside the doorway.

I pulled my hands out from under Leif's as he stood, moving away from me.

Em came in a few moments later staying by the door near James, open bottle in hand. "What's the deal? I come out of the restroom at Bea's after dancing up a storm and see her stomping out of the kitchen to yell at the twins. I've not seen her angry since the twins played that Chris Brown song at the last dance party I was at a year ago. Tonight she practically had them in tears!" Em is oblivious to James's eyes drilling into his friend. "Then Bea insisted we come check on you. Why, do you think?"

Bea must've heard that tape, too, and was wondering if I had.

I looked at Leif imploringly. I didn't want Bea or anyone else to know anything about my meltdown. Somehow, Leif got it.

He turned to Em, commanding, "Emory, will you please go tell Bea that you found Ellawyn showing me around her apartment." He quickly glanced at me. "And that we're too tired to come back, but thank her for a wonderful experience." He was coordinating The Coordinator.

When Em looked at me quizzically and didn't move. I nodded dumbly at her.

"Okaaaay…did someone have too much champagne?" Em smiled, raising an eyebrow at me. She handed the bottle to James. "Be right back."

Once Em had left, James whispered accusingly, "What did you do, man?" He seemed so disappointed in his friend. Leif didn't turn towards him, he was still looking at me.

No! It's not what you think! Which begs the question…What_ did _James think? It pained me to see a little crack in what I've thought of as this perfect friendship. I couldn't bear it. I found my voice. "Nothing, James. Leif only helped me when I…uh…when I fell in the hall. Like Em said, I might've imbibed maybe a bit much. He was just being kind."

James hurt and desolation dissolved into relief as he slid into one of the chairs, taking a swig from the bottle. "You fell? Are you okay? Might I get you something?"

"No, no, I'm fine. I promise."

James seemed mollified and went on to talk about how much fun he'd had and how many interesting characters we seemed to know. _Interesting characters_ might well be his creative translation for "odd ducks," but I was glad to be distracted from the sound of those voices I'd just heard, and anyway, he's right. Counting Bea, Patrick, Mrs. Babushka, the twins, and various other of our neighbors, I was indeed surrounded by plenty of _interesting characters. _

He continued rapturously about the evening until Em sauntered back in the room. "I still don't understand what that drama was about and Bea wouldn't say, but she seemed relieved that you were over here showing Leif around." She sat on the edge of James' chair, grabbing the bottle from him. "Oh, and that cute guy who's in the band was brokenhearted you weren't coming back and wanted me to give you this." She waved a folded note in her hand and then leaned over toward me with it. "I think it's his phone number." She paused, smiling guiltily. "Okay, I _know_ it's his phone number because I peeked at it. He wants you to come see his band play and invited all of us as well." I doubt that invitation included the "intense guy."

For some reason, after a furtive glance at Leif, I couldn't bring myself to take the note. "You can just set it on the table," I mumbled. She slapped it down and that damn note seemed to sit there on the coffee table, waving at me. I was already regretting having agreed to go out with him.

"You don't mind if we go back do you?" Em had asked me, perfunctorily, getting up from the chair. "There are even more people there and I think I could dance til dawn!"

James seemed completely knackered, poor boy. "Yes. Let's go do exactly that! I will soldier on," he said gamely, illustrating the fact that, as he said earlier, he was indeed _thoroughly Coordinated._ Before Em pulled James into the hall, I saw him mouth, "I'm sorry," to Leif.

"Don't wait up!" Em called gaily. "I'll shut the door on our way out." And then, for a moment, it was silent as the depths.

I found my voice again, even if only a small one. "Please don't mention anything about…about _all this…_" I made a vague sweeping hand motion, "to Em or James. They seem to be having a good time and I don't want to ruin it for them. I don't want Em to worry."

More silence. Leif was gazing at me with open emotion. It was too much so I dropped my eyes down again.

More deep silence.

A long, masculine artist's hand appeared in front of me. The silken voice broke the quiet. "Come. Let's not make a liar out of me. Show me around. If you're not up for it, you can just take me to a room I can sleep in."

And I took his hand.

I shudder as my mind replays last night's events. The latter part of last night needs to get its damn stupid-ass self behind the wall, too, I think as I clomp up 1st Ave. It's all too much. Too overwhelming.

I am mad at myself, mostly because I am not that girl. Dammit. I am not some stupid-ass, frivolous girl who gets all fluttery over a stupid boy, no matter how…_compelling_…he is. It helps if I include that stupid boy in my anger, so I replay how he seemed to _want _to find fault with me early in the dinner last night. _That's right, _I remind myself. I need to hold onto that. He's an arrogante pendejo. It's probably because of him that it feels as if I have to constantly shore up the walls in my mind; the inner structure that I like to keep in place. Yeah, it's his stupid fault, I am sure of it. I want—I _need—_solid ground and he unsettles me. It's _his_ fault.

And I am _not _that girl!

I am a worker bee. I made straight A's at school when I was there. Now, I am someone who takes care of her grandfather. I am someone who makes this her _job_, who has a whole _Plan_ to accomplish this. The only thing I've not done yet is get Henry to go out of the Rehab, even for a short walk with his wheelchair; he's refused every time. But we will do that today, come hell or damn high water. _See?_…I've got things to do, dammit. Plans! Pfft…I am _so_ not that girl.

I walk with that thought in mind for at least a good block.

Guilt overtakes me that I called that pretty girl Leif was dancing with _stupid. _Granted, it was only in my mind, but I've never put down someone like that before, almost as if I was in competition with her or something. That was so petty. She's probably really nice and even if she isn't, she didn't deserve that from me. I say a mental _I'm sorry _to her. That is not like me at all. I am not that girl.

_I am not that girl, dammit! _

That one who gets mesmerized by some stupid dark blue eyes that are, truly, like deep pools of ocean water. Or maybe better is _pools_ of _deep_ ocean water; they're intense and deep, either way. I am not someone who gets distracted by plush lips or strong masculine arms. Golden muscled ones.

I am not someone easily derailed by a boy…no, a _man, _a twenty-three-year-old one, who asked all kinds of questions—about some of the photos in the hallway, the artwork—but thankfully, _didn't _ask what happened with my floundering collapse. I could see the question in his eyes, though…and the compassion and empathy and kindness. It was a sort of kindness that, at its core, did not seem to be all that unlike James'…Albeit, not so open and ready and affable, like his friend's sweetness, but still… And how he kept hold of my hand the whole time and it felt as if I pulled some strength from that, from his touch…like he was willingly _giving _his energy. And it wasn't unsettling at all, but peaceful and serene and…_healing._

Midway down the next block, I catch myself and stop short in the middle of the sidewalk to shake off these thoughts, glad that the only people I've passed so far in this early morning are the ones stumbling home from a late night out. None of them pay me any mind. I make it to the following block with no further replaying of last night, of _him. _I concentrate on planning to have a wheelchair checked out from the front desk and ready for Henry—there are no rehab exercises today. And soon I'll start my first day at Falk Atlantic, all in the service of taking care of Grandfather, paying off our bills.

I am not that girl.

I wonder if I'll see him much there at the office, and how he'll be different at his place of work. Will he be the elevator guy again, all arrogance and…and… good parting lines? Or the church garden guy? Or the one from last night who gently lifted me up from the floor when…when I…? And before that…dancing. It is precisely as I flash to the beautiful feeling of dancing with him that I catch myself obsessing. Again! _Baka, _I whisper to myself—Japanese for idiot. I am acting like a complete _baka_. I stop again, putting my head in my hands, looking down at the concrete. This is not working. It's like I can _feel _him. Feel him _right now. _I shake my head in my hands saying out loud, "I am not that girl." I must look like a crazy person on the street.

Apparently though, I am a crazy person, because I can see that beautiful artists' hand right in front of me, outstretched, palm upward, blocking my downward view of the sidewalk in the dark. I continue to shake my head, to shake off this new vision, but it's still there. _What?!_ I follow the hand with my eyes to see it attached to a strong golden arm, white shirt rolled to the elbow. I follow it all the way up to a pair of deep pools of ocean water. In his other hand he holds a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. It is real. He is real. He is _here. _And I am adrift.

"Did I conjure you?" I ask, before I can get ahold of my brain and mouth and understand that by asking that question, I just revealed that I had been thinking about him. He doesn't say anything. His arm is still outstretched. Beckoning.

I take his hand.


	20. Part 2 - Chapter 20

_**19…Throw Downs…**_

The clear weather is not matching either Grandfather's or my moods. We are both out of sorts, with Henry bordering on crabby. Not counting since the stroke, I've seen the O.G. crabby all of a small handful of times, and usually it really just amounts to him being extra-pensive, quiet and thoughtful. He's normally too delighted by life—by everything!—to spend any time down in the dumps. This morning, though, he's straight up glum.

I'm not sure exactly when it started because he seemed okay on waking and during his breakfast, but it might've been after I told him that James and Em were coming to lunch, but Leif could not. His mood was definitely worse after I actually wheeled him through the sliding doors out onto the street. Maybe it didn't help matters that I sort of tricked him. I didn't actually lie, I just said we were going to get coffee, knowing he would think we were going to the stand on the lobby level. Instead, when we got off the elevator, I turned toward the exit. For a second, I thought Henry was going to bolt out of his chair when he figured it out, but I was moving too fast for him to do that. Or maybe Henry was gloomier after we almost rammed into a frowning Dr. Grinch who had just gotten out of a taxi in the drop off area in front of the building. The doctor doesn't normally work Sundays. He has been nicer since that first time I met him, but most especially since he saw all the photos in Henry's room of him with important people. His patients should be important all on their own, but I'll take what I can get. He did make me remove all but one of the rugs in Henry's room, though I can't really fault that. They were in the way.

When I plop Henry's stylish old fedora on his head, which I had cleverly hidden until we got outside, he sat back in his chair, resigned to being outside.

"Isn't the sunshine nice? It's supposed to get above 60 degrees today." I very lamely try to infuse some cheeriness into my tone. He doesn't answer and I'm glad I can't see his face. Originally, I'd thought to take Henry up towards the United Nations building, but I know that's not such a good idea now. We would probably run into someone he knows and I'm pretty sure he is not ready for that.

Instead I push a quiet Henry aimlessly through the streets, knowing I didn't think this through at all.

I shove back my own ill-humor and begin breathlessly telling him about the dance party last night. Literally breathless, because I am engaging previously dormant muscles and am practically wheezing: I didn't know how hard it was going to be to push his wheelchair for any length of time. There is no way I could've made it the ten or so blocks up to the UN building. I give him a very abbreviated and airy version of events. I am in no mood to share everything and I'm certainly not going to tell him about that tape the twins played.

After I tell him about the boys meeting Mrs. Babushka, Henry says, "Stop, child. Come around here." I walk to the front of his chair, kneeling so we are eye to eye.

"Do something for me, okay?" I nod. "Please do not cartoonize Mrs. Babic or objectify her in any way."

"I wasn't," I protest in a small whiny voice. But I think back to what I'd just said about her and maybe I did. A little. I called her Mrs. Babushka, which I usually didn't, and in trying to get Henry out of his funk through humor, I did maybe make the tiniest little quip about her mustache.

"If you only knew what a brave woman she is, probably the bravest person I've ever known, and what unthinkable sacrifices she's made in the service of others, the loss and sorrow she's had throughout her entire life, you could not make her into some mustached crone who sits mutely in the corner. She deserves the upmost respect, not derision."

I want to look away, but Henry's serious eyes pierce mine in place. I am not used to being admonished by my grandfather and this really smarts. He will talk something over with me to help me gain a new perspective, but out and out chastising? Never!

My throat burns and I open my mouth to reply, but I can't find my words. Guilt washes over me. For Mrs. Babic, but also for this whole stupid outing, especially because with this wave of guilt brings the realization that I only forced getting Henry outside to prove something to myself—_I am not that_ _girl!_—not for the betterment of my grandfather.

Henry pulls me toward him and kisses my forehead, watching me with his discerning gaze. I try to say something again, but my mouth just gapes, wordless.

After a long moment, he says, "You know what? I think we need a Throw Down! Right now, right here in the street."

A Throw Down is yet another family tradition. It is a one-sentence encapsulation of whatever is at the heart of the problem you're having. Only yelled. You're not supposed to really think about what you're going to say, you're just supposed to blurt it out…throw it down…at the top of your lungs. Grandmother issued the most Throw Down challenges, mostly when either Grandfather or I went silent, pondering a problem. You are not allowed to say no when someone suggests a Throw Down and everyone present has to participate.

I'm not particularly inclined to make a spectacle in front of anyone today; I did enough of that this whole weekend. I quickly scan the side street we're on and no one is close enough to really hear us. Besides, this is New York City after all, and people have seen much crazier things.

Henry must be reading my unspoken thoughts. "Yes! In front of God and everyone! You do the countdown." When I make no move, Henry adds, "Go!"

The little bit of sparkle that's returned to Henry's face is probably the only thing that makes me find any words, only they're in Japanese.

"Ich!" We both hold up one finger.

"Ni!" Then two.

"San!" We throw down three fingers and yell at the same time…

"NOTHING IS MOVING FAST ENOUGH!" Henry.

"NOTHING WILL STAY IN ITS PLACE!" Me.

We both look at each other as the words reverberate on this nearly-empty street. A smile creeps across Granddad's face. Honestly, I feel a little lighter for having yelled it out.

"Strangely cathartic, isn't it?" Henry says, echoing my thoughts again. "Do you want to explain?" That's another Throw Down rule. You have to scream out your problem, but you do not have to explain it further unless you want to.

"No," I reply because I don't even understand it myself. "Do you?"

Henry shakes his head and I'm about to say, "Use your words," but he's smiling again so I let him have this one. Besides, I lose my own words often enough lately, so really, who am I to demand verbiage out of anyone else. "But you know I'm going to wonder about your Throw Down sentence," Henry says.

"Right back atcha, G." I reply. What is not moving fast enough for him? Is it healing from his stroke? Speaking clearer? What?

We head back toward the Rehab—my muscles are going to be sore tomorrow—stopping at the little coffee shop across from it. I park Henry at an empty table outside to run in. When I come out with my coffee and his tea, there is a tall man who looks Eastern European, about mid-fifties maybe, with wild brown hair peppered here and there with salt. He's talking to Henry. Or trying to anyway. He looks flustered.

Crap! I should've known not to leave him out there, but I wasn't sure about navigating his wheelchair inside. I hastily put the drinks on the table and stretch out my hand to him. "Hi. I'm Ellawyn Ellis, Henry's granddaughter."

This man looks at me strangely through his smudged eyeglasses before a broad smile stretches across his face. "My word, you've grown!" he exclaims with a very slight and sort of charming German accent. He ignores my outstretched hand, which I let slowly drop to my side.

Uh…I glance down at Henry, who looks all right, I guess, but it's still difficult to identify all his post-stroke facial expressions.

"Oh! Of course, you probably don't remember me. Too young. You were a patient of mine right after your accident. I was at Johns Hopkins then."

Accident? I search his face in confusion, then Henry's—I think there is a little alarm there. Oh…oh. Understanding dawns. He's talking about the accident in Costa Rica when I was seven. I forget that it was _my _accident, too.

Now he stretches out his hand. "I'm Dr. Ricard Mathieu. Neuroscience, with a specialty in language." He gives me a wild handshake that reverberates through my bones, and then immediately releases it to plop himself across from Henry in what was going to be my chair.

_Do have a seat, _I think to myself, with no small amount of sarcasm.

"What's going on with Mr. Ellis?" he asks, gazing at Henry eagerly, while I'm still standing and gaping.

I glance at Henry, who subtly shrugs at me, a wry smile now on his face. I shrug a surrendering reply and pull over a chair from the next table. "Um…My grandfather has suffered a stroke," I say uncertainly, sliding into my chair.

"A stroke?" he says, pensively, scrutinizing Henry like he is a fascinating alien creature from outer space. "Interesting. How has this stroke affected his language skills?" He doesn't take his eyes off my grandfather.

"Henry," I say, trying to repress my confounded smile. "How are your language skills?"

"Nah ve'y guh."

"Not very good," I translate, looking at the doctor, who nods, thoughtfully. "But they're getting better every day!"

"How long since the stroke occurred?"

"Three weeks and three days."

And then his face lights up in what could only be described as…_glee_, exclaiming, "Well this is fortuitous!"

_What!_ Fortuitous that Henry's had a stroke? I am appalled, but then I see that Henry is clearly amused. Bewildered, I look back at this doctor and he is so innocently earnest that I can't really get any ire up.

"Let me tell you about this exciting new research project I'm doing!"

And he does. Albeit in a sort of non-linear fashion.

Henry and I are now watching the mad neuroscientist scurry into the road in the middle of the block, nearly getting clipped by a taxi whose driver yells some foreign curse words at him that I don't know. They sounded good, though.

The doctor seems oblivious to it all. "You know, O.G., last night James said that we knew a lot of characters. The actual phrase he used was, '_Interesting Characters._' And I really wish James could've met this guy, who might be the quintessential embodiment of those words."

Henry says, "Normally, I've found it rare that stereotypes hold true, but maybe not so much in this case." We watch him trip over the far curb onto the sidewalk and then catch himself by grabbing the linked arms of a couple strolling hand in hand. It almost reminds me of me in the eleva…Nope! Not going to think about _that_ right now.

"I'm quite positive that it would be entirely appropriate to objectify and cartoonize this particular scientist," Henry says.

I reach over and clutch his hand, knowing that the creative translation of what he just said is really…_I'm sorry for admonishing you._

"I wouldn't really have to employ much of my own neuro-facilities in order to accomplish that," I reply, which really means..._No problem. You were right about Mrs. Babic. We're good, _G_. _"I already have a nickname for him. You?"

"Dr. Magoo," we both say at the same time. And then both also add at the same time. "Too easy."

I wonder if Henry remembers watching that cartoon together with Grandmother in…Kiev, maybe?...I can't remember precisely what city, but I know it was dubbed into Russian, which made it hilarious.

"He is a true man of science," says Henry.

"If by 'true man of science,' you really mean completely lacking in normal social skills, then I wholeheartedly agree."

"That's exactly what I meant."

We watch the doctor on the other side of the street walk first one way on the sidewalk, then turn around midstride and walk the other way. Then do it all over again.

"Brings to mind an age-old question…" I say.

"Why did the mad neuroscientist cross the road?"

"That's the one I meant." I nod.

"I got bupkis. You?"

"Nothing. Not a clue. He doesn't even seem to know," I shake my head in wonder.

We watch as Dr. Magoo disappears around the corner, but not before bumping into a woman coming the opposite way.

The live cartoon over, I turn to Granddad. "Why do I feel like we might've just accidentally sold you for spare parts?" Through me as the translator, Henry agreed to go to the mad doctor's new medical complex to get a tour of the facilities and learn more about the research he wants Henry to participate in.

"I might look really cool with screws in my neck."

"You look cool now with your fancy old hat and your brand new warm-ups," I smile at him, getting up from my chair. "But I'm really going to have to put the brakes on Em's extravagance."

"Good luck with that," Henry smirks.

"I know, right?"


	21. Part 2 - Chapter 21

_**20…Collisions…**_

Back in Henry's room, I wheel him over to the table now formally set for five people. "Ahh…looks like the lunch fairy has come." There's a steaming crockpot and some other covered dishes on a side table and the wide windowsill where Bea made room by removing the books and photos that were there. I grab the note sitting on it. "And gone."

"What did she say?" Henry picks up the newspaper, looking over the front page.

"That we're having bruschetta with an olive dip to start, then tortellini with salad, and fruit compote for dessert. And there are cold cuts in the fridge for your dinner and I'm to bring the pot and stuff home with me because she will be cleaning from the party all day and night." I put the note down, hoping it's okay that Henry will have to use a fork to eat today in front of James. He's better at it, but still a little wobbly; there are occasional spills. I take the lid off the crockpot to see the pasta with all kinds of chopped veggies in an alfredo sauce. When could she possibly have made this? I'm sure she's home right now, scrubbing the place down. "Honestly, O.G…Does Bea ever really sleep?"

"Speaking of which, you look a little knackered yourself. Why don't you have a lie down for the hour or so until your friends come? You've had two late nights now in a row. I've got the Sunday Times to enthrall me and if I finish with that, there are still some Guardians, Pravdas, and Le Mondes from last week to get to." I watch him pulling the newspaper's pages apart and he's even getting more adept at that. It was excruciating to watch him try to turn a page even a week ago.

I am exhausted and a nap sounds great. I find a pen for Henry's crossword and hand it to him. "I'll just put away this extra table setting first, since there will only be four of us." I start to grab the silverware and Henry puts his hand over mine to stop me.

"Tell me something, G.C." He hasn't used that nickname for me in a while. It stands for Grandchild. "Did you get to show the boys around The Rambler last night?"

What an odd question. "Well, James and Em stayed at Bea's 'til God knows when, dancing, so I don't know if Em showed him around. But I gave Leif a quick tour of some of it, not all. It was late and I was tired."

"And what did he like best?"

"He commented on some of Grandmother's more unusual furniture. He liked the bunks. In fact he picked the blue one to sleep in last night. They all stayed over." Rosamunde had built sleeping berths right into the wall in several wings of the apartment for when we had extra guests and not enough bedrooms. When not in use, sliding doors covered the openings to the bunks. Children, especially, loved these. They kind of look like rail car berths. Or built-in mates' bunks on a ship. Of course the sea god liked those. My face goes red thinking about it and I'm thankful Henry's not looking at me, he's already started his crossword.

"What else did he say?"

"Not much, really, oh…he liked the penny bath, but everyone does." Grandmother had tiled an entire bathroom floor with pennies and then decided to do the walls and shower stall with coins from around the world. "And he asked questions about some of the photos with you and your famous friends."

Henry looks up at me now, smiling and I hope my face is not as red as it was a moment ago. "How about we leave that extra place setting. Maybe Bea or someone else will show."

"If they do, I'll have to find another chair. There's only four."

"No you won't, I'll stay in my wheelchair. I bet the front desk can spare it for a while longer."

I grab the fedora off his head and put it away in the closet, more to get out from under Grandfather's discerning stare than anything. I slip off my shoes, then climb into Henry's bed and pull the curtains around it. The problem with lying down is that my thoughts take over. I did pretty well on our jaunt outside and only thought about _him_ ten or twenty times while I was wheeling Henry around. I am so glad he cannot come to lunch today. He walked me all the way to the front door of the rehab this morning and I want to try to gain a little distance and at least some of my equilibrium back before I have to see him at Falk.

"O.G." I adjust the pillow. "Will you tell me about Mrs. Babic and why you said she was so brave?" Another thought pops in my head and I ask before I think it through, before I'm sure I even want to know. "And will you tell me the story of why I was a patient of Dr. Magoo's?"

"You don't remember him at all?"

"Not even a little."

"Yes, I will child. I want to tell you all your stories. But sleep now. Bonne nuit."

I did not sleep in my own bedroom last night, but rather one closer to the bunk Leif picked. Grandmother had started redecorating this particular room so I could move out of what we called the "children's wing," and into my own wing of The Rambler. At the time I was jonesing on this particular color that was somewhere between a dark teal and a bright peacock blue, and she painted the walls in that color and put a high gloss over it. She had nearly finished before she got too sick. I don't know why I've never moved into it, but I've not been in New York much, so it didn't really matter. That's where I slept last night. It was just down the hall from the bunk Leif chose.

I drift off to delicate memories of tiptoeing down the hall to watch Leif sleep, which I did last night, almost unabashedly.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!" is how I wake out of a deep sleep, accompanied by Em's smiling face hovering in front of me. "Basic how-do-you-do's have been made, but we need your translations skills." She is entirely too cheerful. The curtains are pulled open and I see James looking at the photos on the wall. Henry is in his wheelchair, smiling at him.

When I sit up on the bed, Em giggles at me. "You've got a hilarious imprint of the pillow across the whole left side of your face. It sort of looks like ocean waves. So does your hair." She fiddles with it, gleefully pushing it higher. "If we could just shellac it in place with a can of Aquanet, you'd fit right in with my country cousins down in Waycross."

I slap her hand away and glare at her. Now, I'm really, really glad Leif is not coming. I notice a bouquet of flowers on the table that they must've brought.

"Who else wants a coke?" Em asks. "Because I'm definitely getting one for the Grumposuarus Rex on the bed." When James says he'll take one, Em asks him "What kind?" He looks perplexed.

"Allow me if you will, to translate this Southern Gothica into proper English, James," I say with a yawn. "A 'coke,' in Em's vernacular means any kind of sweet soda drink. So what she's actually asking is do you want a Sprite, Coca-Cola—either Diet and regular—or Ginger Ale, which is all we have, I think. Oh, and…water and orange juice."

"I'll have water, please," James turns back to the photos.

"That's the safe bet," I nod. "I'll take a straight-up Coca-Cola, extra caffeine, please." My brain is still fuzzy and as I stretch my arms, I can already feel the soreness from pushing G's wheelchair.

James points to one of the pictures, "Mr. Ellis, is that Sir Nicholas Henderson with you and Thatcher?"

Henry answers and I translate. "Yes, when he was the British Ambassador to the U.S., and his father Hubert is behind him as well. Henry's impressed that you know who he is."

But that's as far we get because there is a new voice at the door—one I've not heard for, oh…about six hours. "I hope I'm not too late!" He carries a brown-wrapped parcel in his hands.

My mouth drops open, shocked.

But that's not the most shocking thing about this moment. Not even close. It's that Grandfather's entire face lights up. And he practically bellows, "Ha! I knew you'd come, Leif! I knew it!"

I am not awake enough to process this.

Another shock—Leif's face lights up, too, and he gives Henry a full-on beautiful, heartbreaking, glorious, dazzling and...loving?...smile. I've only seen half-smiles and smirks from him and I am stunned by the sheer beauty of this thing. It's only lips and teeth and happy eyes, but together it's so much more. It's just too bright for this earth.

This smile is just not fair.

Before I can fully take in the knowledge of what all this means, there are more shocks.

One. Right. After. The. Other.

Leif answers him. Leif answers him as if he can _understand _him.

"Of course, I would come. As soon as I figured out Ellawyn's grandfather was the divine Mr. Ellis."

"I thought I told you to call me Henry."

"I thought I told you to call me Vince."

_Ohmigod! _They have their own _shtick! _I just…can't…process…

"But Leif is just too good of a name to pass up. I don't know if I've ever seen anyone with such apt nomenclature," Henry smiles.

A shrug.

A rueful and playful smile.

And then a self-deprecating joke. "I've been called a lot worse." Leif sets the parcel on the floor against the wall.

"I do not doubt that for a second." Henry stands and gives Leif a big hug.

Which Leif returns.

With obvious affection.

From somewhere in my brain's periphery I see Em and James gaping at this spectacle, too.

Wispy thoughts and questions tack across my mind, but they are as ephemeral as clouds and I can't really grasp onto them. …_They _know_…each other...Leif…sea god…who jokes...the joking sea god?…Granddad…they _like_… each other…Leif can understand Henry…understand him… perfectly… wha?... when?...how?..._

_What? _

I need a translator to interpret to my brain what my eyes and ears are saying.

James or Em, I'm not sure who, exclaims, "You know each other?!" I guess I wasn't the only one kept in the dark.

Leif turns to James, "Yes, remember I did that conflict resolution workshop freshman year at Penn? And then another one on negotiations. And there were more lectures I attended of his. I talked incessantly about them. Well, this was the teacher of all those. My favorite teacher ever, I might add."

"My favorite student ever." Henry.

"I bet you say that to all your students." Leif.

"I bet you say that to all your teachers." Henry.

"Usually only the hot ones." Leif.

"That could be interpreted to mean that you just called this elderly, decrepit old grandfather, 'hot.' I must say I'm strangely flattered." Henry practically sparkles with humor.

And they laugh.

_They. _

_Laugh._

And that tsunami wave of laughter ripples out into the room and probably across the earth and even the galaxy and beyond. Resulting, I'm sure, in the universe's second Big Bang.

I was right about one thing when Henry first mentioned inviting them here—this is exactly like worlds colliding.

Henry looks over at me still gaping on the bed and Leif's eyes follow with that residual ringing joy still alight in their depths.

My mouth opens and closes. And opens and closes.

Fish. Gasp.

Gasp. Fish.

I probably look like a trout.

"I do believe that we have rendered my granddaughter speechless," Henry giggles—yes, _giggles—_as I continue to gape mindlessly. "She had only just opened her eyes right when you got here. I don't think that awakening process is quite complete yet; possibly still in the chrysalis stage." He turns to listen to James and Em exclaim over this coincidence.

Leif stalks toward me, still with that damn unreasonable shining smile. As if the synopses in my brain didn't have enough trouble firing already.

He stops right in front of me and reaches his hand out toward my face—What the hell is he doing? What is he _doing?_—to lightly caresses the indentations on my cheek and temple. I'm glad that his body blocks anyone else seeing this action. Or my resulting wondrous expression.

"You have an imprint on your face," he says in that silken voice. All my synopses fire at once. I'm nearly positive all the blood I have rushes to where he's touching me as if he gave it a siren's call and it responded immediately, eager to be nearer him. I bet entire _oceans _are powerless but to do his bidding. And I don't know if he is reading my mind, or what, because he adds, "It looks like a wave. Or an explosion."

And I know right now as I look into his eyes, that I am done for. Game—such as it was—Over. Nothing in my arsenal is strong enough to keep this man behind the walls in my mind. Not when he's smiling like that. Not when my blood is rushing like a river to his touch. Not when his presence is just so _Big. _And alive. And standing right in front of me. What's worse is I cannot find it in me to care in the least that I am, apparently,_ that girl. _

He drops his hand from my cheek and holds it out to me. "Come sit at the table."

Somehow amidst the mental effluvium and detritus caused by this collision, I do find some words. Important ones. Necessary ones. I call out:

"Em, I'm really going to need that coke."

And then I take his hand.

Leif sits in Henry's club chair and damn if he doesn't look almost kingly in it. I shoot Henry a look that is meant to convey, _We'll talk about you keeping this from me later when_ _my brain is fully functioning._ I sit on the other side of Henry, almost facing Leif and immediately gulp the coke Em hands me.

Bless her, she pours me another one, but not before saying, "Oh look! You two have done it again. You're dressed alike. You match." Sure enough, we do—both in jeans and sage green shirts. Even though Leif walked me up here early this morning, he would not have seen my shirt because it was covered by my jacket.

James starts the conversation exclaiming over the dance party last night. "It was the most fun I've ever had. Does that happen often?"

Henry replies, "It's sort of an organic thing. One just sort of breaks out at Bea's, but it doesn't happen very often."

Leif translates for Henry.

He. _Translates._

I need more coke.

"It was fun for more than James and me," Em grins with a bit of glint in her eye. "Elle got asked out." I notice Henry's eyes slide over to Leif with a smile, until she says this next thing. "By a friend of the twins from NYU. He's in a band."

His smile changes to surprise. "Oh?"

I shrug at Granddad and roll my eyes at Em. I could almost swear she did this with a purpose in mind only I don't know what that might be. She adds, "Yeah, and he's really cute. But not to worry, Henry, he seems sweet, too. Maybe James and I will double date with them the first time." What is she _doing? _

Now is the perfect time to get another coke from the fridge. When I return,

James is uncorking wine that they had apparently brought and asks around the table. I see Henry's eyes light up and I say sternly, "Don't even think about it, dude!"

Henry replies wryly, "Says the nineteen-year-old who drank illegally this weekend probably using a fake ID."

Em giggles, "When my cousin moved to Chattanooga, she let me have her old Georgia license for…"

Henry shushes her good-naturedly. "I don't need to know about it."

Leif creatively translates this sentence as, "He said that you are awful for contributing to the delinquency of this poor innocent child. And Mr. Ellis here is going to call the cops on you." He smiles wryly at Em, who knows Henry well enough to know that's not what he said.

I bristle at his reference to me as an innocent child, but mostly can't get over the fact that he is joking in this way, so comfortably, not a hint of the _pendejo. _

Henry's eyes are sparkling at Leif's joke. "You know it's not the drinking that I mind because we've lived in places where the legal age for wine and beer is fourteen; I think some countries didn't even have a law. Elle's never been drunk. _So far_. She knows how to handle it and is probably better for it for having wine be a part of life and not some secret vaunted thing. But ponder this scenario…"

I can guess what's coming. Here goes.

"Let's just say, hypothetically, that an underage girl used a fake drivers' license at a restaurant. And she got caught. And the teenage girl now has a criminal record, which might keep her from partaking in some future endeavor; a job, say. The restaurant gets a not insignificant fine. And let's just say the waitress, who, for the sake of argument, is a single mother who counts on those tips every night, gets fired." It is Leif who translates this to Em and James, leaving me to let my guilt run free. "And now can't get another job. Or pay her rent."

I roll my eyes, the caffeine kicking in a bit. "See! See what I have to put up with? I can't get away with _anything _without feeling guilty."

Henry puts his hand over mine laughing, "I do not wish to impart guilt, only a deeper understanding." His eyes, I notice, flick to Leif's. "But if I did, I know where to push your buttons because I installed many of those buttons." He gets more serious now. "But truly, everything we do has ramifications and can reverberate through other people's lives in ways we can barely imagine." Leif falters a moment in his translation.

"Says the grandfather who is on multiple medications and was eying that bottle of wine like a man who's been lost in the desert," I grumble.

Em turns toward James, "Honestly, if you ever need advice on anything, there is no better insightful sage then the O.G."

"I've been meaning to ask what O.G. stands for. I see it on your tracksuit," James smilingly says. Half of the things that Em bought for Henry have O.G. or G.D. or just G. embroidered on them. That starts us on the subject of nicknames and I notice for a moment that Em's face dims momentarily. James claims not to have any, "Unless being called 'poncy' counts."

Henry explains how that is not at all the same thing and vows to find him a nickname when James gets a cheeky smile on his face. "Now Leif, on the other hand, has almost too many to count."

It is Henry who surprises me when he says, "I think I might've heard a few of those in my time lecturing at Penn. And most of them, I believe, came from the young women our Leif was acquainted with."

I look over at those dark blue eyes and I think he's…I'm almost sure that he's…_embarrassed. _And I realize he didn't translate those last sentences of Henry's. I quickly do that for Em and James and I swear that he blushes a little, but it's hard to tell with his darker coloring. Either way, an embarrassed Leif is yet another revelation and this is now my new favorite expression of his. It might even be better than his radiant wide open smile.

"Let's keep it clean for the ladies," Leif murmurs.

I blurt out, "You're not allowed to hide behind that lame ass excuse. I know how to curse in a good twenty languages. Besides, wasn't it _ladies _themselves who actually gave you those nicknames?" I grin at him smugly.

Henry is chuckling uproariously at this. "While my granddaughter does make quite a perspicacious point, in light of Leif's apparent discomfort with this subject, I will keep his secrets for now."

I don't translate, but instead look pointedly at Em. "Fine. I'll just get The Coordinator to inveigle it out of James later." I watch Leif's face darken at this idea and he shoots James a warning look.

James is undaunted. "I will tell you one of the first nicknames I heard used for him that he despises beyond belief. To this day, I don't know why because it's rather complimentary. It's El Protector, which is Portuguese for…"

Both Henry and I say it at the same time. "The Protector." Neither of us speaks that language, but it's the same in Spanish.

_El Protector?_ This is yet another revelation.

"How could you hate that?" Em asks him, but I know he won't answer the question. That mask is back down and I can't see past it at all.

Henry must notice it too because after only a small pause, he says, "I will tell you my granddaughter's first nickname and it was the only one for a long time as it was so absolute." Why do I feel as if I'm about to get thrown under the bus? "It was Little Monkey." Leif translates, eying me speculatively.

My parent's voices echo from behind that inner wall; that's what they called me in that tape last night. I don't want to think of this, but I have to work hard to push it away. I hope Leif knows not to mention last night's incident to Henry either, just like I asked him not to tell Em and James.

"Elle thinks monkey are creepy!" Em exclaims.

"Monkeys were her favorite animal, but that wasn't why. It was that she was always the loudest kid, always talking." He turns to me. "You were constantly chattering away, even if it was just gibberish as an infant before you could actually pronounce any words. And so bossy!"

After the translation, Em jumps in. "I can't really imagine a bossy or loud Elle, but that reminds me of something, Henry! When I picked her up at the airport from China, she was speaking what almost sounded like gibberish. It definitely wasn't any language I'd heard. She wouldn't or maybe even _couldn't _speak English!"

A quick glance at Granddad shows his smile has fallen to strain. His anxious eyes bore into mine. After a pause he asks, "Did it sound like this?…" Henry waits while Leif translates the question. Then he adds a few words that I can't make out at all.

"I don't remember." I shrug uncomfortably. And it's true that I don't have much of memory of that at all, even though it was barely two weeks ago.

Henry looks at Em and continues more words with that same sound. Em only shrugs, "Kind of like that, but…" I know she doesn't want to say to Henry that it's difficult to hear through his post-stroke speech. "What language is that anyway?"

I exclaim back what Henry said. "Yoruba? Like from Nigeria? I don't speak Yoruba! We've never been to Nigeria, right?" Henry shakes his head, watching me. Right now I'm feeling almost woozy and I have no idea why.

Leif says, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I've eaten the majority of this bread and olive dip and I'm still starving. Should we start lunch?" He has thrown me a lifeline. He picks up Henry's plate and goes to the crockpot behind him. "This looks very good, Mr. Ellis." James and Em slowly get up as well.

Henry pulls that hawkish gaze off of me and smiles over at Leif. "I thought I told you to call me Henry."

Thankfully, there is no further discussion about monkeys or mysterious languages as we start eating. Instead, when James exclaims over the Rambler, and particularly, the penny bath, Henry has me tell the story of having a Secretary of the Treasury over to stay one time, who told my grandmother that tiling a bathroom in coins was probably illegal. But with a wink at Rosamunde, promised that he wouldn't tell. I smile wistfully at this; everyone was charmed by my beautiful grandmother. Another time they had a party where a Norwegian diplomat, who was also a numinastics enthusiast, told them that one coin tiled in that bathroom was some rare invaluable thing. Later, they found scratches around the grout of one of the coins as if someone had attempted to pry it off the wall. That diplomat was never invited over again.

As I swiftly remove a tortellini that has fallen onto the table from Henry's fork, James asks about the meaning of the pop art painting just outside the kitchen that depicts a packet of fries with the caption, "Freedom Fries-not served here." Henry explains that Rosamunde picked it up at a street artist's booth in D.C. as an amusing reminder not to engage in foolish and childish endeavors. I am silent during all this, just watching. And Em, I notice, is as well.

When James says it is the most beautiful apartment he's ever seen, Henry asks where he lives. Since they just came over from Penn, their living arrangements are not permanently set. They only last week had to vacate their place in Philly, so James is currently staying in an apartment in Chelsea owned by someone he knows who's in Hong Kong for the spring and summer. He claims it's smaller than the penny bath. Leif, it turns out, is occasionally crashing with him, but it's just so small and claustrophobic, as Leif describes it, that he can barely stand it. He's been mostly staying on a boat he recently got and is fixing up. It is now moored at a marina in Chelsea.

Henry's eyes alight at this info. "A boat! How exciting!"

A chortle rises up in my throat before I can stop it. I try to suppress it, I do. I practically bite my lips together to keep it down, but it comes out anyway. Because _of course_ the frickin' sea god lives on a boat. Of course.

"What's so funny?" Leif asks me, amusement clear on his face.

I shake my head. Hell, I'm almost surprised he doesn't just sleep on a raft anchored by mermaids in the middle of the Hudson; one that he cobbled together out of driftwood and seaweed. At this picture in my mind, another sound rises up from my core and this time, it comes out more like a snort. I clamp a hand over my mouth and press my eyes closed, looking down at my lap.

"What are you going to do in bad weather? Surely you can't stay there in a storm?" Henry questions, clearly enthralled.

When I look up, Leif is smirking at me with his eyebrow cocked, but goes on to answer Henry. I don't even hear what he says because a glance at Em shows her softly giggling at me. I shake my head for a moment, trying to shake off my mirth so it doesn't erupt into full-blown laughter. But what Henry says next dries up this burgeoning laughter. I am immediately sober.

"You should come stay at The Rambler! We have more than enough room and I'm sure Elle wouldn't mind. She lives alone there now in that huge space and anyway, we have umpteen bedrooms!"

_Wha? Huh? _I think my face has resumed that gasping fish look.

Leif smiles at Henry. "Thank you for the offer. I'll keep that in mind."

I find my voice. "Granddad, I don't live alone! I live there with you. You just happen to be away at the moment." Henry turns to me with a melancholy smile and pats my hand as the conversation continues, moving on to the private equity firm James will start work at in a week.

I bend my mind around this new possibility. No…Granddad is coming back. Soon. That's the plan, that's always been the plan. Hasn't it? What is he thinking? For the moment, this is even taking precedence over the very provocative idea of Leif living at the Rambler. Where does Granddad think he's going to go after he leaves inpatient Rehab? Oh dear, I've got to get our bills paid off so I can be ready. I don't know if I'm going to have to hire a nurse or some other kind of caretaker when he comes home. I don't know if Bea can properly watch over him while I'm at work. I've got so much to figure out.

It is when Leif begins talking about Falk Atlantic Investments that I tune back in to the conversation. I am reminded that as of a week from tomorrow, Leif will also be in my work life. _Well, hells bells! _ In one week Leif has entered my social circle, such as it is, and my family life—via Grandfather, who is now offering him to move into my flippin' house. One stinkin' week! I didn't even know he _existed _until last Wednesday. How did this happen?

Leif is telling everyone the history of the company, most of which I learned from internet searches. How it was started post-war by Scottish immigrants in Brooklyn as a small import firm bringing in mostly Scottish and some Irish and Welsh goods such as wool, whiskey and other products. That division still remains, but is now just a small part of the whole. Their son, E. McMorgan Falk, took the company over and turned it into what it is today, a privately-held, multi-billion-dollar shipping and investment company. They are currently expanding their holdings in technology, manufacturing, and intellectual property. They're also increasing their Pacific and Gulf of Mexico port presence in the U.S.

"That's one of the reasons Ellawyn is being hired now. There are other individual speakers of those languages throughout the company, but the executives need someone on hand in New York with her particular language skills for the South American and African, but mainly Chinese and Japanese business interests," Leif explains as Henry eyes me proudly. "It was actually me who suggested we have interpreters solely dedicated to helping our staff increase those connections with foreign business partners. As you know, many business people in nearly every foreign country speak some semblance of English, but not all. Right now we're forging important liaisons as we expand with some smaller businesses that don't have English."

He looks at me now. "Captain Gray didn't expect these languages would be encased in one person; he thinks you are something of a miracle. Just be prepared that when you come in next Monday, no one will know what this position is going to look like, or quite what to do with you."

"You know it was just chance that I ran into Captain Gray while I was walking our dog, Petal, last weekend. She led me into that garden at Grace Church." Oh! As soon as those words are out of my mouth, the memory of the second time I was in that garden flashes forefront through my mind…listening to Leif's heartbeat… smelling his scent…our arms around each other. A glance at him reveals that he might be thinking of it, too.

"You met the Captain in the church garden?" Leif asks incredulously.

I nod, realizing that he wouldn't know that unless Captain Gray told him. I certainly haven't until now.

I watch Leif's face as Em chimes in with, "Well, it seems it was fated. One way or another, you were going to end up there, I guess. Because you would've eventually known Leif through me, via James. Or via Henry. But you found this job through a different source entirely. It just seems as if it was meant to happen."

A momentary quiet descends on the table. Henry is looking off in the distance and a slow smile spreads across his face. As I get up to take everyone's plates and serve the fruit salad, I hear Henry ask, "And what do you do there?"

"I work in the mailroom." I can hear the smile in Leif's voice. "With the aforementioned Captain. Or rather I _will_ work there; I am officially starting a week from tomorrow, same as Ellawyn. When I…uh…_saw _her at the office last week, I was only visiting Captain Gray after my exams were done for the week and he had me come in as a favor to him." This is news. News that immediately brings to mind the elevator, which I quickly squash.

"And how did you come to be hired there?" Henry asks.

"I'd met the Captain at a sailing event a few years ago and we've stayed in touch, even taking his boat out a few times. Then he hired me for a summer internship there last year for my MBA program and as I was nearing the completion of my schooling, I was very heavily recruited."

As I stack the plates in the sink, I hear Em exclaim behind me, "To work in the mailroom? You have an MBA from Wharton to work in the mailroom!"

"Yes, but he…" James starts and stops. My head whips toward the table and I would bet all my depleted life savings that Leif has shushed him with a look. After a pause, James says, "We both still have some exams this week. We're leaving tonight to take the train up there and staying in a hotel. The official graduation is not until next Sunday."

"And are you participating?" Henry asks.

Leif answers, "James signed us both up and is trying to talk me into it, but I don't plan on it."

"And why not? What a lovely ceremony to acknowledge your hard work!" Henry is dismayed. "Ceremonies are important!" Leif doesn't translate this, so I do as I begin serving the fruit salad.

"That's what I've been telling him!" James exclaims. "Perhaps he'll listen to his favorite teacher because he is most certainly not listening to me. He says there isn't anybody to see him walk, so what's the point. I have to admit that Emory is the only guest coming to see me and I only asked her last night. Neither my parents nor sister can cross the pond for it."

"I know what we can do about that," Em declares. "Elles will come with me! She'll be your guest, Leif!"

"Hello, Coordinator," I mutter as I roll my eyes, setting a bowl in front of her. And then louder, "I can't leave Granddad." But it does, I admit, tug my heart to hear that Leif doesn't have anyone to watch him walk. I don't know anything about his family situation. There are so many questions I have about him.

Henry is appalled. "Of course you can, silly child. Go with them next weekend and cheer them on. I will not hear of you having to stay here for me. It's only for a day." When he sees I don't look convinced, he adds, "Do it for me. That's where I met this young man anyway and now that we've reconnected, I would go if I could."

Granddad has pushed both my duty and guilt buttons, for sure.

"It's decided," Em proclaims in full Coordinator or maybe Controller mode, even though no one translated what Henry said. "I've got my car here in the city, so I'll drive us up on Saturday morning and we'll go out to celebrate that night. I've never been to Philadelphia." I narrow my eyes at her and she does the same to me, knowing she's going to get her way. Between the O.G. and The Controller, I don't stand a chance in hell of not going. My eyes flick over to Leif's. His inscrutable mask is back on, but at least he doesn't look disgusted by this idea.

"Alright," I mutter, shrugging. I can't deny that some part of me wants to go, too, even if there is a warring part that doesn't want to leave Henry alone. "Speaking of upcoming exams, shouldn't you both be studying? Shouldn't you have been studying all weekend instead of hanging around with us?" Honestly, they've spent Friday night, Saturday night, and now half of Sunday afternoon with us.

James clasps Em's hand on the table. "It was worth it, and besides, we'll be fine with our last exams. We did the majority of them last week and we're both very clever." He blushes at his own boast. "But after finishing this gorgeous fruit, we will hit the road, as you Americans say. There's a train every hour, so no worries."

"Two things before you go," Henry says. "One, please do not stay in a hotel while you're there either for your exams or for graduation. There is a townhouse right in Rittenhouse Square that has lately been rented out to visiting scholars and professors. I know it is not being used at present. You'll find it has multiple bedrooms and a couple desks and tables to spread out while studying. And it's within walking distance to both the college and the 30th Street train station. I will write down instructions for the lockbox where you'll find a key, plus the alarm info. Or rather I'll transcribe it for Elle. My writing is not yet so good."

Leif translates for Em and James as I gape at Granddad. How could he possibly know it's empty? Who owns it? What if James and Leif show up and someone's there? "G, are you sure no one's staying there? Is that where we stayed before when you were lecturing at Penn?"

"Yes and yes, child."

"Who owns it?"

"Someone I know in your grandmother's family," Henry non-answers. I've not met any of them, so I guess it it's no use getting a name. My grandmother stopped speaking to her family after her own parents passed away. I don't know why.

"That place was beautiful, built in the early 1800's, wasn't it? But it's also kind of creepy. You can almost feel the ghosts of the past."

Henry nods at me. "You don't know how right you are."

"Sounds like every old pile in England. I'll feel right at home," James is again applying that positive spin on everything. "Thank you, Mr. Ellis. Are you sure we won't be putting anyone out?"

"I'm sure, dear boy, I'm sure. And if you deign to come back for another lunch with me, we will find you a nickname. Everyone needs one."

After Leif translates, James smiles so sweetly at Granddad. "Of course! This has been a delightful afternoon. And I look forward to my first nickname."

Henry looks over toward the wall where we put up the framed photos of him out in the world. "And the second thing is…Elle, will you grab that picture with the Penn students in the bar?"

I pull it off the wall and hand it to him. It is at a long rectangular table with a dozen or so students around it, with Henry at the center facing the camera, so alive and joyous. Everyone is smiling, holding shot glasses with an acid green concoction in them, aloft toward my O.G.

"Remember this night, after the lecture?" He asks Leif as he hands him the photo. Leif gazes at it, an interesting display of emotions crossing his face.

Henry continues. "Leif sent it to me later, this photograph. He somehow tracked me down while I was at Stanford." They both share a pointed look that I don't understand. When I first started at Stanford for the summer quarter four years ago, both my grandparents stayed there with me until I moved into Em's that September. Henry did a series of lectures there that summer.

Em takes the photo from Leif, and then passes it to James. "This is a really beautiful shot. Are you still taking pictures?"

"Not really. Not lately. But I didn't actually take that one."

"This photo was snapped by our very flirty waitress, using Leif's camera," Henry explains. "And as a side note, Leif…don't think I didn't see that she passed you her phone number when she gave the camera back to you." Leif looks a little abashed at this.

Why does the thought of him going out with this long ago waitress kind of bother me?

James hands the photo to me as Henry asks, "Can you spot our young Leif in that picture? Come to think of it, you were probably too young to be in a bar yourself, then." Leif shrugs.

I've walked by this 8 by 10 framed photo a zillion times in the hallway of the Rambler before I brought it here to decorate Henry's room—to remind him of his valued place in the world. I've only really glanced at the students before because my ebullient, sparkling Grandfather was at the center of that bar table and my eyes would naturally go to his convivial face. But as I look at it this time, I become transfixed by the back of a dark-haired head with the barest hint of a profile showing—just a glimpse of a square jaw and strong nose, although you can tell he's smiling—sitting opposite Henry. It's the long artists' hand holding the glass that really gives him away. I think I would recognize that hand anywhere now. In the photo, there is a light spilling on him; onto them both. And it looks as if he's just about to clink his glass to Henry's, like it's only an inch or two away.

All these connections. I really shouldn't be so shocked, but I'm having trouble getting my mind around it. Leif has been captured in a photo hanging on the wall of my house for _years_. A photo taken with _his _camera. Strange.

Yep, worlds colliding for sure.

James has just pushed the elevator button when Leif hands me the bag he's carrying for me, saying, "I forgot something. Be right back." He jogs down the hall back towards Henry's room and I watch the way he looks doing it. That man sure can wear some jeans. Even rushing down an institutional hallway, he looks graceful. And in charge. And beautiful. And compelling. And…I have to stop myself from coming up with more superlatives. I can't imagine what he could've forgotten, but maybe he'd taken his phone or something.

Once lunch was done, Henry claimed to be exhausted and needed to rest so I'm leaving with everyone else, but he probably just said that to get out of the talk we're _definitely_ going to have about him keeping things from me. He knows I am not a fan of surprises, and this was much more than a mere surprise, much more even than a shock. I need to process this and would walk home if I could, but I have these big bags filled with Bea's serving dishes and crockpot. I'll have to take a cab.

While we wait, Em says to James, "Do you want to come over for a while before you leave? My apartment's not far from here and I probably won't see you all week." She's using her Southern accent coupled with her doe eyes. As if he'd say no.

"Well, there is a train every hour…" I look away as they kiss.

Leif strides back down the hall toward us.

When we're standing out front of the rehab center, James informs Leif that he's going over to Em's first and will meet him later at the apartment.

Leif tells James, "If you get there first, just know I've got some of my boxes strewn around and opened. I was looking for something. We've not been robbed or anything." Then they hop in a waiting cab and are gone swiftly. So much for getting to talk to Em about what's up with her. I'll call her later.

I turn to Leif who says, "Apparently, I've got some time to kill now. I'll see you home." He takes the two cumbersome bags from me to put over his own shoulders, leaving me with only my messenger bag.

I start to walk toward another waiting cab, but stop when I notice he's not following me. He's heading toward the sidewalk instead. When he sees I'm not behind him, he stops and holds out his hand. Again.

Those beautiful hands—made for artists or musicians or even surgeons. One of which is beckoning me on this sunny afternoon.

"I thought you'd like to walk."

I take his hand.

Of course I do.

I have so many questions, but I don't ask them. They're all pushing and jostling for prominence in my mind and not one actually makes it out of my mouth. We don't talk at all until we're on my block.

"I only figured it out last night and didn't tell you because I wasn't sure I would come and if I did, I wanted it to be a surprise," he explains, as if he'd been having an ongoing conversation with my thoughts.

"I hate surprises."

"Not for you, but for Mr. Ellis." Then quieter, unsettled, but with the feel of truth ringing out, "I wasn't sure he'd want to see me."

_No way! What? How? Why? _These thoughts all elbow each other, but remain unasked. This just doesn't make sense; I saw the open affection on Granddad's face. I wait for him to explain further, but he doesn't.

When I step inside the elevator, he stands in the threshold removing the bags from his shoulders and placing them at my feet. Just before he steps back to allow the doors to close he says, "You'll have to show me the rest of the apartment sometime, but of what I did see, I liked your room best." I can't read his expression before the doors slide closed.

It is only much later that night that I realize I never showed him which room I was sleeping in. I left him at the bunk last night and went down another hall and even around a corner to the room Grandmother had been decorating for me. Did he come to find me in the night? Did he watch _me _sleep like I did him?

When it's time for bed, I curl up in the blue bunk, inhaling the scent on the pillow. It'll probably leave another imprint.


	22. Part 2 - Chapter 22

_**21…Partial Truths…**_

It should come as no surprise to me that this little overnight jaunt to Philadelphia for the graduation has turned into a two night stay. Em decreed, via text—I've not seen her all week—that we should leave Friday evening instead of Saturday morning. I didn't even protest, for several reasons.

One is that Granddad has been pensive and near implacable all week. He's banished me from the Rehab almost every afternoon, not even allowing Bea to bring him dinner on those nights. He claims to be "tired" and "has a lot of things to figure out," and for me "not to worry."

Pfft… Yeah, _right! _

He doesn't know that at least for the first couple afternoons, I've stayed anyway. I would go downstairs to get coffee or walk around the block and then come back up to lurk on the fifth floor. One of those afternoons, I caught him midway through a conversation with Dr. Grinch. I shamelessly eavesdropped in the hall. It was frustrating for me because the doctor was not speaking loud enough for me to hear everything as he paced around the room, and Henry seemed to be typing his responses on his laptop. He is a slow typist at best. I get only the barest hint of details from the odd sentence I can make out of the doctor's side of the conversation. "One of the main check-off points is being able to get outside…" "That is a great indicator of…" "…blood levels are stellar…responding to the medica…" "…scans…great…" "…met every criteria…" "Is that really you with Golda Meir?" "Everything points to a very speedy healing…"

For some reason it reminds me of listening to the twins!

But then the conversation turned slightly argumentative, at least what I can hear of it from the doctor's side. "If you say so, but really…" "I do not understand this at all, because everything is positive, exceptional, even, but…" "…should be happy…what every patient aspires to…" "…until early next week only and then…"

When it sounds as if the doctor's about to leave the room, I run halfway down the hall and turn as if I'm walking toward Henry's room. When he doesn't come out immediately, I walk backwards until I see the doctor, and then quickly stride forward again. I stop right in front of him, pasting a smile on my face.

"So, Dr. _Grange,_" I say his name carefully so Grinch doesn't slip out again. "How is my grandfather? Anything new I should know about?"

"You'll have to talk to Mr. Ellis about that." Clearly exasperated, and with a heavy sigh, he steps around me and continues down the hall.

I want to shout after him, "I can't! He won't tell me anything!" but of course I don't.

The other reason is that since Granddad mentioned that I now live alone in The Rambler, all of a sudden the apartment has become this huge cavernous empty place. School—especially with my accelerated schedule—filled up my life, and then taking care of Henry did the same. Right now I don't have either of those things. And Em's been working crazy hours all week.

My afternoons and evenings feel like one big gaping maw of time and space. I've walked Petal too many times; sat with Pat at our building's lobby desk and reread a book about Middle East youth written by an-ex Stanford student; looked everywhere for that note Adam left with his phone number, but it seemed to have disappeared off the planet—our new housekeeper must've moved it somewhere; practiced my Chinese writing and wrote to Professor Zhang-Lei again, to thank her for the book; caught up on emails to school friends and the Songs—five just to Dragon alone, who tells me he likes his new English teacher, a Chinese language student from Lebanon, but not as much as he liked me; given a cheery email update about Henry to Professor Gardner so she wouldn't worry; wrote Ito a long hand-written letter; went through the mail and sent out some bills since the pension and social security checks had been direct-deposited.

Truth be told, though, mostly I just bugged the heck out of Bea. I watched a couple movies with her, had dinner at her house every night, and was the most morose member of her "hype crew" when she did a live radio show. Bea's "hype crew" that night consisted of the twins, Pat, Mr. Pantano with his son Mason…and Mrs. Babic. So when Bea declared I was the lamest member, that was really saying something. I even braved her exasperation by helping her re-file the records she pulled out for her show: this is something I learned long ago never to do because her system is truly known only to her and her ire is just not worth it if you mess up.

But all was forgiven, as it usually is with her by my saying the magic words…"Bea, would you play me some music I've never heard before?" She will never get tired of this request. Her eyes light up like a kid's at a carnival. Each night before bed, Bea played me two songs from every decade starting with the 1940's. I discovered that Sam Cooke's "Bring It On Home To Me," is not the sexiest song ever sang. It's Nina Simone's "Sugar In My Bowl." I had Bea add that to my iPod, along with some Cape Verdean morna music and other songs I liked of what she played me during the week. Every night, I slept in the blue bunk.

So when Em texted Thursday morning during the time I was actually permitted to hang at the Rehab, I only turned to Granddad and said, "Is it okay if I leave Friday instead?" I already knew his answer.

The plan, as it was dictated to me by Em, is for me to pick up her car which is parked in a long-term lot on the block behind our apartment building. Then I am to get her suitcase from her building's doorman and swing by to pick her up outside her office in Times Square. It would be so much easier to just take the damn train, but I agreed because, apparently, I don't get a say in anything any longer.

I can't pinpoint the moment precisely, but sometime during this week I'd just given up.

The only thing added to the plan is that I'm also dropping Bea off at the Rehab with a cooked dinner for Henry before going to get Em's suitcase. It's right on the way, but even if it wasn't, I'd do it anyway because Bea has been extra nice this week. Sparing her the revulsion at having to take a "filthy" cab where you cannot know "what nastiness is waiting to climb all up on you," seems a small price to pay for me being underfoot all week.

"You're sure you don't want to come in for a bit before you leave?" Bea asks, climbing out of Em's screaming yellow Lexus hybrid hatchback in the drop-off area of the Rehab. I put the blinkers on and get out to help her retrieve the dinner bags from the back seat.

"No. I've got to get up to Sutton Place and then Times Square in this Friday afternoon traffic." I reply. "Besides, what's the point?"

Bea puts her hands on my shoulders. "Make sure to stay close to your friends while you're in Philly. And always have your cell phone on you. And don't answer the door at the townhouse." I see her repress a shudder. "And don't worry."

"That's what everyone says..._don't worry_." I shrug. Bea knows that by "everyone," I really just mean Henry.

She puts her hand on my cheek. "I'm going to have a talk with your stubborn as hell granddad." She places her hand on my cheek. "Just please…"

"Don't worry," we both say at the same time. I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes.

When I'd asked Henry why Bea seems so anxious about Philly, he replied that "That's Bea's story to tell, but don't worry." When I'd asked why Leif wasn't sure Henry would want to see him, he replied, "That's his story to tell." When I'd asked what Henry had to figure out and why he was so preoccupied, he replied, "We can talk about that later, child. In the meantime, please don't worry." Same when I asked him more about the townhouse, and why Grandmother stopped speaking to her family, and why Shad was so distant with me this week—that is, when I actually s_aw _him. So I stopped asking.

Just before I start to pull out of the Rehab drop off area, I get a text ping from Em…_I'm not getting out of here by five. Can you pick me up at five-thirty?_

It is right after I type my reply that inspiration hits. Instead of turning left to go out onto the street, I go forward instead, turning right into the Rehab parking lot. It is good timing; there are a couple empty spots. I thrust a twenty and Em's car keys at the attendant with a promise that I'll be back in fifteen minutes. I run up to the fifth floor, stopping out of sight just outside Henry's room. Sure enough, it's almost like with Henry and Dr. Grinch. Bea, thankfully, has a radio voice. Or maybe it's just that she gets louder when she's angry.

"…can't dissuade you, then just leave me out of it. In fact, I don't even want to know about it so I don't have to be complicit by association. No…wait…I take that back. I _do _want to know about it because I'm the one who's going to be picking up the pieces when you go about this all wrong."

There's a long pause when I hear the tap-tap-tap of the keyboard.

"Trust you? I do trust you, and love you and Elle more than life itself, but…Have you not noticed how absolutely _defeated_ she's been this week? Does it not break your heart, because I can tell you it breaks mine. And I'm sure," Bea's voice gets low, but I think I hear, "it's breaking Rosamunde's, too."

There's only a short pause this time.

"I think it's entirely fair. You've not fulfilled you promise to her! Remember that she didn't direct and determine _how _you did it, only that you _did. _The rest is on you."

Bea's voice goes mushy and soft. "Yeah, I admit that was kind of harsh, but it doesn't make it untrue. And I know it's hard on you and that you're trying and you didn't expect this kink in the plan." There is another pause, but I don't hear any keyboard tapping this time. "You know I made a promise to her, too." My throat burns when I hear the tears in Bea's. "I promised I would help keep you in line and make you complete your task, even when you were heartbroken. And take care of you and Elles."

More tapping.

"Yes, I'm sure I don't know the whole story and I wouldn't doubt there's a lot you're keeping even from _me. _And yes, I do remember what it was like then, but she's not seven anymore as she keeps reminding me. Look, I know you're worried, but she's worried, too. And God knows, you two are driving me crazy with your worry and keeping everything inside so you don't worry the other…so you won't burden anyone else. No wonder where she got that from."

"Em said that? When?"

"Well, that kind of makes sense, but she snapped out of it and I know that because she yelled at me that night. In English. I've never been so glad to be yelled at in my life."

"She won't go away again. She didn't when Rosamunde left us and besides, wouldn't it make it less likely if she understood? That was a completely separate thing and we, none of us know precisely what happened then."

"Oh, so _now _you want to know what I'd do instead?" I can hear Bea roll her eyes. "For one, include her in the process. We can dole it out. I can start by answering any question she asks me…"

"Ugh. That was a low blow, Henry. So maybe not that one, at least not the whole sordid tale. I don't want that in her head. In anyone's head. It has nothing to do with this anyways."

"Whatever…okay, but just the tiniest part."

"No way. You know as well as I do what the difference is. I was a stupid kid who didn't know love or caring before you and Rosamunde saved me, and she's not. She's always been treasured, even amidst the trauma."

"Fine, then I'll write it up for later."

"That's an interesting possibility. If you think he can."

"But how about we explain years seven and eight _now_. We can do that together. That crazy doctor can even help."

"Oh, I love that idea! I want to meet her, too!"

"We shouldn't wait on that, though. It might be months, but let's write a letter tonight. And speaking of meetings, why don't we invite Karen and the girls up sometime? She should at least know them so it's not a shock..."

"Yes, I already told you I've helped her on all the bills like I said. Several times now. But why can't I just…"

"Okay, fine. Baby steps. Her birthday is next week, you know, which means twenty-one is just around the corner. Alright, we'll wai…"

It is precisely at this moment that I see the evening nurse, Angela, start up the hall toward me, probably to do her rounds. She'll give me away if I stay here and plus, there's a distinct possibility I'm going to be late picking up Em. As much as I hate to leave my eavesdropping post, I scurry down the hall when I see her go into one of the other patient rooms.

It is not until I'm in the car heading towards Em's apartment that I truly start to ponder all this. I need to try to remember everything that was said, but I have so many questions and it all becomes jumbled in my mind. The whole conversation was apparently about me. I didn't know there were so many secrets in our family. None of this came up when I was away in school. Obviously, I've not been paying enough attention. What is Henry so afraid will happen? What did happen? And what's the big deal that I yelled at Bea the first night I came home? And in English? Include me in what process? Who are Karen and the girls? What's the sordid tale Bea mentioned? What? Who? What?

And what promise did Granddad make to Grandmother? I made one to her, too, just days before she died. Well, several of them, actually. The main one was that I would stay in school to finish up my studies, even through my grief. And I did that.

I'm no closer to figuring anything out by the time I've inched through Times Square traffic. I have identified one important piece of information, though. And that is that Bea _wants_ to answer my questions—questions I didn't even know I had until now. I should talk to Em about all this to see if she can help me puzzle it out.


	23. Part 2 - Chapter 23

**22…Simple Truths…**

I see Em up ahead on the sidewalk, flanked by three beautiful swan-looking girls. Of course she's already made friends there, I think, when she smilingly breaks away from the group to jump in the passenger seat. Before I pull back out into the traffic lanes, those same girls seem to be smirking and laughing. They look less like swans now, and more like clucking chickens.

"How was your day, dear?" I ask Em. It is several long seconds while I repress the urge to yell at some of the drivers on the road before I realize no answer is forthcoming. Of course. No one answers anything I ask, even a jokey innocuous question. I glance over at Em and am stunned by what I see. Her head is down on her chest and her face is covered by her hands. "Em?"

Oh hell! I think she's…She's crying.

I grab the tissues she always keeps in the glove compartment and push them into her hand. She takes them without looking up. I keep my hand over her fingers trying to pour all the comfort I can into my touch. Eventually, I put on some soothing music from my iPod that Bea had put in a folder that she cleverly titled, "Soothing Music."

It's not until we're on I-95 deep into New Jersey, that I hear, "Sorry to be such a baby." This is a disconcerting thing for her to say because she's always cried unashamedly.

"Hey, don't worry about it." I can't believe the words, _don't_ and _worry_ came out of my mouth right there together since that phrase has bugged the crap out of me all week. "Get it all out. Cry as long as you like." I look over at her in the dark, the lights from the highway splashing intermittently across her tear-stained face. She's staring straight ahead and looks—I borrow Bea's word for me—_defeated_.

"You never do."

I guess I've never told her this before, but I immediately make a new vow of openness. I say it now. "That's only because I _can't._"

"Why not?"

"Crying gets stuck in me, in my throat. I'm not sure why. I wish I could cry, though. It seems better than having your throat feel like it's being blowtorched." That's precisely how it feels right now seeing my dear friend in so much pain. "Plus, you never really get it out—you don't ever feel any kind of relief."

"Oh," is all she says.

I want to ask her what's wrong, but the words get stuck in my throat, almost like crying does. I seriously think I'll lose my mind if she says she doesn't want to talk about it. But Em's always been more open than I am—than everyone in my family is, apparently. "Will you please tell me what's wrong? What's _been_ wrong? I'm sorry we've not gotten the time to talk about it."

I feel a split second of relief when I hear her start, "Okay, but…" And then it dries up when she follows with, "But, promise you won't think I'm a total loser."

Holy hell! The word _loser_—like _panties—_has never been in Em's vocabulary. "You are many things, but not that. Just tell me and we'll puzzle it out together, okay?" My family mysteries can wait.

She says in a small voice, "I have a bunch of new nicknames. They started calling me Little Miss Daffodil first, I guess because I wear a lot of yellow. And I like flowers."

"Who?" I ask. But is it wrong of me that I also briefly contemplate…_Why didn't I think of that? _It's_ brilliant!_

"Those girls who were standing with me outside. They all hate my ever-loving guts. They saw me waiting just a couple minutes before you got there and came over to ask what my plans were for the weekend. But really they just wanted more ammunition to make fun of me. When I said I was going to Philly, one of them said I should fit right in there. I don't know what that's supposed to mean, but I know there's a put-down in it somewhere. I wanted to text you to tell you to pick me up on another block, but I knew you wouldn't get it since you were already driving. I didn't want them to see me getting into a bright yellow car. They'll be something new on Monday, I'm sure."

I think back to the way they did seem to be smirking at Em as soon as she walked away. And I want to go beat them all up, I'm so mad. Instead, I mentally break my grandmother's Rule to call them every bad gender-specific name I can think of.

"After Daffodil, they started calling me Daffy, and then Daisy Duck or Daisy Duke, I was never sure which, maybe both. I don't even know if they intend for me to hear these names because they're mostly whispered behind my back, but I do hear them and it hurts." Oh, I'd bet they fully intend it.

"We call you all kinds of names, and it's never bothered you."

"Yeah, but there's affection there. Acceptance. For my Southernisms, my love of yellow and flowery prints, even for my _coordinating_ proclivities. It even feels loving when smart-aleck Aunt Bea calls me Miss High and Mighty. But not with these girls. They're mean to me."

She takes a deep breath, saying softly. "And then there's Tweety Bird." Again…_brilliant, _I think, before immediately feeling guilty after what Em says next. "That one bothers me the most because they use Tweety Bird's lispy accent to make fun of me. I heard one of them say, 'I tawt I taw a Vogue intern wearing her gwandmother's clothes,' when I walked by them in the cafeteria one day in a boucle suit. It wasn't haute couture—it wasn't Chanel or anything—but I thought it was nice. And yes, it was yellow." That sounds like the suit she was wearing when she picked me up at the airport. Almost as an afterthought, she adds wistfully, "Tweety Bird was always my favorite cartoon when I was little, and now they've ruined it for me.

"Can I stop you for a moment?" I ask her, wanting to tear into those girls.

"Wait, that's not all. Let me tell you one more thing first, okay?" I nod to her. "Daddy called me up and read me the riot act for spending so much money. He yelled at me. He's never yelled at me before." This is so clearly disquieting for Em. I've seen her dad yell at her brothers, Mitchell and Carter, but never her. She and her mother Allison are treated like the Queen and Princess of their household. "He said I needed to grow up and that money doesn't grow on trees and I needed to stop being a baby."

"Oh Em, you've spent so much on me and Henry! The town car? All Henry's fancy warm-ups and pajamas? That outfit for me?" The familiar guilt overtakes me. "I'll pay you back as soon as I can."

"No you will not—those were gifts! I was just so happy you were in New York, even if the circumstances were awful and even if I don't get to see you all that much. Besides, Mom ran interference for me with Dad. He called back to apologize and put a chunk of change into my account. Guilt money. Mom did the same thing so I figured they must've not told the other and I'm certainly not going to. She also sent me a different credit card to use that Dad won't know about. But I've stopped spending much money anyways. I'm practically as thrifty as you now." I highly doubt that, but I'm not about to say it. "I used to take all three of those girls out for expensive lunches. I even gave one a Celine bag for her Parson's graduation. I was just so sure that if they _knew _me, they would _like _me. But I guess I was just desperate and pathetic. Now, I just try to work harder than anyone else and avoid those three."

"One quick thing. You mentioned graduation presents and I've not even thought about that. Let's find some time tomorrow so I can get Leif and James something, okay?" Em nods in the dark. "And I'm so sorry this is happening to you because you are _not _pathetic. They are. Are you getting anything good out of this? Learning anything?"

"Yeah, but not enough to make a thesis out of it. My hoped-for theme kind of dissolved. It might be that I've just wasted too much time and energy on getting acclimated and on the drama. I was planning to graduate in June, but…I talked to my advisor and I'm just exploring some options."

"Is anything good about your days?"

"Not everyone is mean. I've met some really creative, really passionate people. I met this design pair at a cocktail party for work. Those girls were ganging up on me again and I was hiding in the kitchen hallway. They were servers there and we started talking. I'm going over to their studio next week to see their designs."

"That's very cool. I like the fact of you making new connections, even arising out of the pain of the mean girls."

"I guess so. Can I ask you something, Elle?

"Of course you can. Anything."

"Do you think I dress like an old lady?"

Gulp. I know my best friend wants reassurance. I know she's experiencing something she never has before, just like Bea said when we talked about Em last weekend. I almost want to give her a pat answer, but with my new vow of openness, I settle on the simple truth. "You know what? I don't give a crap how you dress, what covering you put on your body. I like the girl behind it. She is the best friend anyone could ask for. If you wanted to wear yellow spandex body suits or _housedresses_, for heaven sakes, I'd just say, 'You go girl!' But whatever is your style of the moment, I'd also say you should own it. Make it yours. To hell what anyone else thinks."

"That's the thing," Em says. "I don't know that I've found it yet. You know I chose to go far away to school to find myself. Find what I wanted to express in the world. And with my business. And everything. But what I think I've done is just settle on what I know, using someone else's model, not my own. I'm just not there yet. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, it does."

"Hey, how far away are we from getting there?"

"Probably about thirty minutes or so."

"And you know the way and everything?"

"Yep. I looked at a map before I left. I'm good."

"I'll never understand how you're so good with directions. Okay, so I need to fix myself up." She reaches into her bag on the floor, pulling out a makeup kit. "And I think we're going to have to change the subject so I don't cry anymore before we get there." She flips down the lighted visor in front of her. "Ohmigod, I look awful."

"You've never looked awful a day in your life and I have more to say about this and those girls, but I'll wait for another time if you need me to."

"Thank you. And you won't tell James about this, will you? He's like the one great thing I've gotten out of these weeks in New York."

"No, of course not." And I can't believe this is coming out of my mouth, but I say it anyway. "That's your story to tell. But I will say that I think you should talk to him. Tell him about it. Share the good and the bad with him."

"Who are you and what have you done with my friend?" Em giggles.

"I know, right?"

"I'm intrigued by this new Elle. Which brings to mind another question I've been wondering about."

"Ask away!" I say.

"You like Leif, don't you? I mean like him, like him."

Well, I can't deny I brought this on myself. After a deep breath, once again, I settle on the simple truth.

"Yes. Yes, I do." Em would normally be _squeeing _right now. Loudly. I look at her and she's watching me with her lips pressed together, merriment in her eyes. "You're holding back your _squee _right now. Aren't you?"

She nods at me, holding in her elation. "Barely," she giggles. "I've been waiting for this day for too long." I roll my eyes, but she can't see it because I'm facing the road again. "Don't think I don't know you're rolling your eyes, my friend. I watched him at lunch with Henry when I mentioned you getting asked out by that guy in the band. I did that on purpose." Of course she did. "Leif is attracted to you, too."

"You think?" I really do try to push back my own elation. "But he's so out of my league. He's stunning, Em. And just so…so…"

"Ellawyn Ellis, you are going to make me…_curse! _I swear. No, you're going to make me _cuss! You _are stunning! Absolutely. Guys have been after you ever since I've known you. Now that you've gotten your head out of your…_books_…you might see that for yourself. You have this effortless unique style. You're beautiful. You might let me sex you up a bit, though. Tweak your clothes a little, make the most of your assets."

"I couldn't pull it off." This is what I always say when she offers to do this.

"You could try." And this is how she always replies. "Just think about it. In the meantime, I'm going to work on James about his whole issue with Leif dating friends of his girlfriends."

"That's my girl," I say.

"Hey…you don't call me The Controller for nothing!"

I smile in the dark all the rest of the way to downtown Philadelphia.


	24. Part 2 - Chapter 24

_**23…Symmetries…**_

As the garage door slowly opens behind the townhouse, Leif ducks under the yard-high opening to stand in the alley, glowering. He watches as I inch into the garage. Then James is there with a huge smile on his face for Em as he walks over to the passenger side.

Leif wrenches my door open before I've even turned off the car. "What took you so long?" He looks almost savage. I don't take my eyes off him as I get out of the car and pop the button to open the hatchback.

"Friday evening traffic?" I don't understand this rage.

"That's too far to drive!" he scowls.

"It's only a hundred miles of easy road," I counter. Geez.

"You call the New Jersey Turnpike an easy road? Anything could've happened to two girls traveling alone." He stomps toward the open hatchback and I trail behind him.

I'm now starting to understand his fury. Em hadn't texted James until we were pulling onto the block. We ended up talking about the mean girls again, briefly. I was giving her advice as she was fixing up her face. Then we blasted some of Em's favorite songs to reset her mood. We sang along at the top of our lungs. We just forgot.

"You were worried about us?" I can't keep the smile out of my voice.

James and Em come around to help retrieve the bags. "Any later and Leif would've gone off his trolley. As it is, he paced a hole in the carpet when Em wasn't answering my calls or texts. He was driving me barmy!" James struggles to pick up Em's huge suitcase; yellow, of course. Arm in arm, they head into the house.

Leif throws my small bag over his shoulder and slams the hatchback shut, turning to follow our friends.

"Hey," I say gently. When he doesn't look at me, I grab his arm and move in front of him. "Hey." I touch his cheek. Slowly his fiery eyes find mine and his enraged face softens. "It's sweet that you were worried," which is my creative translation for, _I love that you care._ Before I can think about it, I put my arms around him to pull him into a hug. "But you don't have to worry anymore." I press my face into his neck. "We're here now." After a moment, his strong arms come around to hug me right back. And I feel him sigh.

We find Em and James in the kitchen, opening up some wine. Em hands me a glass, exclaiming, "This is now the second best kitchen I've ever seen, after The Rambler's." It is all white and clean-lined with some walnut accents and marble countertops. Nothing has changed since I was here four years ago.

Leif disappears out the deck door off the kitchen as James says, "We have enjoyed staying here so much. Believe me when I say that it would've been a very different experience at a hotel. Ellawyn, I'm really going to have to do something nice for your grandfather for this."

"Just come see him again. That will be thanks enough."

"Now you two must be starving. We got some steaks to grill and brought some side dishes from a deli. We'll eat as soon as the steaks are ready. In the meantime, Em, let me show you our room, it's lovely."

I chuckle watching James lug her bag toward the stairs. He'll probably be sore tomorrow. I head toward the deck to see Leif manning the grill. His back is to me so I stay in the doorway silently sipping my wine and drinking him in.

He's got seriously well-fitting jeans on, and a grey t-shirt that practically _worships_ his shoulders and arms. And there are those boots I've come to love. His posture is upright and forceful. I quell the urge to stand behind him and run my fingers up his back and through his hair. But mostly…okay, maybe not _mostly_, but equally…I want to know him, what's inside him. He's _interesting._

"What are you thinking right now?" the silk velvet voice asks without turning around. Yes, of course he knows that I've been watching him.

"That you should have a 'Licensed to Grill' apron on." Wow, where did that come from? I kind of sound jaunty.

"That's not what you were thinking."

"Okay, you're right. You should have a 'Kiss the Cook' apron instead."

"Being flippant does not become you. That's not what you were thinking either." He turns around now. He's holding a grilling utensil that, for a moment, looks like a mini-trident. The fire and smoke from the grill behind him enhance his blazing expression. I don't really have time to get upset about his flippant comment, because he asks, "But if I did, would you?"

Oh Lord! Is he asking if I would kiss him? There is only one answer to that question, but a giggling Em and James are suddenly jostling me. I move from the doorway to let them out on the deck. When I turn back around Leif is facing the grill again.

Dinner that night is a lingering affair. We eat at the bar in the kitchen and James fills us in on their time here. After they finished their exams on Tuesday, they spent the rest of the week meeting up with their professors, TA's and friends.

He says, "We English are not big on that American thing you call _closure_, but it felt quite nice taking time to say goodbye to everyone. Our now ex-landlady even made us dinner one night to thank us for being such great tenants!"

When James asks Em about her week, I can see her decide what to say. "It was absolutely awful. I promise to tell you about it, but please not tonight, okay? I just want to enjoy this dinner with my friends now." When she smiles at me across the counter, I give her a subtle thumbs up, mouthing "Good girl."

Leif, sitting next to me, asks me about my week. I look at his mesmerizing face deciding how to reply. Again, I settle on the simple truth. "Exactly what she said." I point to Em, who now looks dismayed.

"You didn't tell me your week was awful, too!" I watch the understanding dawn on her face that I really didn't get a chance. "Oh," she smiles ruefully.

"It's okay, we were busy," I shrug. Leif is looking at me with questions in his eyes, but accepts my answer. We move on to other subjects.

It's nearly midnight by the time Leif and I have cleaned up the dishes and the grill. He waved Em and James off when dinner was done and they had escaped upstairs. Now, he picks up my small duffle bag from the kitchen floor.

"You can choose which bedroom you want. I've taken one on the second floor…" He stops when he sees my fleeting smile. "What?"

"I just figured you for a master suite kind of guy," I chuckle.

"I thought it more prudent to give James the master suite since it's on the fifth floor and Emory was going to be coming here."

"Good point," I say through my blush. "I'll take the other second floor bedroom." I remember there are two on that floor. He leads me to a room with two double beds and sets my bag on one of them. I tell him, "I was in your room when I stayed here before."

"Would you rather have that one? I don't mind switching." I would love to say yes, so I can go to sleep with his smell all around me, but I shake my head. For a fleeting second, he almost looks disappointed.

I awaken early the next morning with a realization that my conscious mind must've pulled to wakefulness from my subconscious somehow. It's that, by admitting to Em out loud that I am really attracted to Leif, I was less awkward around him last night. Yes, there's still that force he exerts over me, and yes, I am hyper-aware of his very _presence_, and yes, I still get fluttery around him, but I'm not quite the stupid dolt I was with him before. I stay in bed ruminating on this, expanding it. Maybe the reason for it is not so much that I admitted it out loud to Em, but that I admitted it out loud to _myself, _accepted it of _myself_. Either way, I truly hope that last night's ease with him wasn't just an anomaly because he is suddenly looming so large in my life. Come Monday when I walk into Falk, he's going to loom even larger.

I still don't know, though, if what Em said is right, and that he's attracted to me, too, or if that's just her—and let me just go ahead and admit that it's also _my_—wishful thinking. Em would love to be able to double date, best friends with best friends. It does have a nice sort of symmetry to it. With that thought comes another realization… There is a certain rightness to the four of us being together. I think back to that horrible first dinner out when for a moment we were all holding hands in a kind of square and got shocked. Maybe shocked is not the best word, but there almost seemed to be some kind of reverberation with the four of us. Or something. Even if Leif doesn't feel for me what I feel for him, there's just…something…there with all of us. I swear I can feel it now, a wisp of it at least, with the four of us in the same house.

I shake off my strange thoughts and jump out of bed. This house has its own kind of weight and does weird things to me. It did last time, too. I swear there are ghosts here.

I tiptoe into the shower, hoping it doesn't wake Leif as we are sharing the adjacent second floor bathroom—there are doors from each of our rooms into it. When I'm done with my shower, I get a weird pleasure looking at his grooming supplies lined up neatly on the counter next to his leather shaving kit. I pick up his cologne. It's not a name brand, but looks as if it's some kind of handcrafted potion. The writing on the label has worn off so I can't tell for sure. I open the top to smell it. Ohmigosh, this is all clean ocean breezes and spice and…there aren't words. It's just _Leif_. I feel an illicit thrill when I spray some quickly on my hair. And neck. And wrists. And ankles. I put it back and go quietly into my room to get dressed.

I didn't bring much in the way of clothes, but settle on a white sundress I've had for ages with pale embroidered flowers on the hem. It's supposed to be unseasonably warm today, but just in case, I tie a pale pink sweater around my waist because it matches the Chucks I brought. I tiptoe down the stairs elated to find coffee brewing. Leif must already be awake, because I would bet all the _cha_ in China that Em isn't and I doubt James would leave her alone in bed. But Leif isn't in the nearby sitting room, or the dining room. When I give up, passing back through the butler's pantry I remember something. My grandmother had found a picnic basket in one of the cabinets there and we'd used it one long-ago day. I find it in the third cabinet I check, along with that same quilt we took with us before. I take them both with me into the kitchen. I see a note I must've missed.

It says, _Gone rowing. Meet for lunch? –Leif._

This is the first time I've seen his handwriting. Like with everything else of his, it's beautiful. While I drink my coffee, I trail my fingers over his name. A glance at my watch shows it's barely seven-thirty. Em could sleep until midday.

I scribble under Leif's handwriting, _Going Walkabout. Call or text_. –Elle

While I'm walking over the Walnut Street bridge, I see a few racing boats alongside each other on the Schuylkill River below me, each with four men in them. They are a beautiful sight slicing through the water, so I stop to watch. Even though the bridge is pretty high, creating a good distance between the boats and me, I swear I can pick out Leif in the back of one of them. I remember that I have my good camera with me and wrestle it out of my bag. I snap some photos as the boats approach, and then dodge the cars to run to the other side of the bridge to get some photos of the teams from the back when they come out under the other side. Leif, I think, looks up at me briefly; I hope it doesn't break his stride, or whatever you call it in rowing. I lift my hand to wave at him, but I don't think he sees me.

I walk to the cemetery where Grandmother took me when we were here before. I place the flowers I bought on the way at several of the graves of my ancestors, some from the 1800's. As I do this, a memory comes to me of last time we were here. I remember feeling watched. It wasn't creepy, strangely enough, just like there was a sort of… _aliveness _here, right in the place of the dead. It stayed with me the rest of that day I spent with my grandmother. She'd not been back to Philadelphia for ages and it distressed her being here; and this from a woman who was perfectly at ease in third world countries, who was always solid and stable and balanced. I remember that the presence I felt that day seemed to infuse me with a kind of peace and comfort, maybe even strength, which I then used to soothe my grandmother's disquietude. I barely let go of her hand the entire day.

I don't know what possesses me to do this now—maybe to see if I can recapture that feeling—but I spread that quilt out in between the largest grouping of my ancestor's graves. And I sit.

When I start to fold my legs into a cross-legged position, it occurs to me that I think I was wearing these same pink shoes the last time I was here. I chuckle to myself that Em must be influencing me with her whole recollecting-shoes-from-years-ago thing. But then I remember Grandmother tucking a flower in my hair and I'm pretty sure I was wearing _the exact same dress, _too_. _Because she'd said, "This flower matches the pink ones on your dress," right before she fixed it in my hair using the red ribbon the florist had tied the flowers with—the same shop I'd gotten the flowers from today. Strange. Maybe packing this dress was a subconscious thing because I don't know the last time I wore it. Who knows? I take one of the ribbons and one of the two remaining pink flowers from the basket—I didn't put all of them on the graves—and weave it in my hair. For symmetry's sake.

I close my eyes, whispering, "Grandmother? Rosamunde Willa Hamilton Ellis, I miss you so much. I love you so, so much." Grandmother is not buried here, she is not buried anywhere, but was cremated. I've never asked Granddad where her urn is because that's something I don't ever want to see. But still, right now, I swear I smell her perfume. I can _feel _her. And there is so much love and it reverberates out and it's like I can _feel _my ancestors—back through time. Something wells up in me and I close my eyes, just accepting this feeling of connection.

I slowly fold up the quilt and pack it away in the basket, also picking up the red ribbons that had fallen when I placed the flowers. And with a last whispered, "I love you," I leave the cemetery.

With a profound sense of peace.

I meander a bit, in the area not far from the college, when I remember Grandmother and I having dinner near Boathouse Row and she explained to me that rowing teams are headquartered there. Maybe I should take a cab up there—it's probably too far to walk, even for me—to see if I can run into Leif. If I do, though, I should probably find a bathroom first to see if my hair air-dried without going completely wild. Almost as soon as I have that thought, I spot an elderly woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of an ancient-looking photo, frame and antique shop. I stop to ask her if I might use her restroom. She eyes me up and down before ushering me in, pointing toward the back.

My hair doesn't look that bad, but the flower and ribbon I fixed it in did fall out of it somewhere along the way here. When I come out, I start to look around the shop. Grandmother would love this place! Alongside what looks like old oil paintings are new watercolors with interesting carved frames. Old silver serving ware and new hand-crafted pottery. I bet I can find graduation gifts for Leif and James here.

"Do you like those?" I look up to see a strawberry blonde girl with cute freckles across her nose, not too much older than me. She must be referring to the belts I'm holding.

"They are exquisite!" I exclaim. "Everything in here is." She blushes at the compliment.

"Well, that's my husband's doing. He took up leather-working and carving and all kinds of handcrafting after we met. My great-uncle taught him. They're not here right now, but their workshop's in the back. Do you want to see more? The stuff they're working on now?" I nod eagerly. She calls out, "Grandmother…watch the store, okay? I'm going to the workshop."

As we're walking toward the back, I notice another beautiful piece of artwork, a drawing, and stop to ask her about it. Her whole body blushes this time.

"I did that. All the new art is mine." Her whole body blushes this time.

I gush about her talent all the back to the back room.

An hour or so later, still in the store, I text Em.

Her reply is, _James is taking me to the liberty bell. Want 2 meet us?_

Me: _I've been. No thanks. Be prepared for a line. Are you walking or driving?_

Em: _You have 2 ask?_

Me: _Ok, that was the dumbest question ever—even though it's really close to the townhouse! Heard from Leif?_

Em: _Done rowing. Will meet us 4 lunch. We had late b'fast. Okay for later lunch?_

Me: _Fine. I found grad gifts, but I need something for it. Will you ask James the address of his and Leif's apartment while they were here? Don't tell why, ok?_

Em: _Interesting! Can't wait to hear about it. Hang on a sec._

Em texts me back the address and I get directions from my new friend, Megan—it's close to here. With a hug to this darling girl, I leave the store with her business card in hand. Together, we've worked out what I want and I'll pick up everything tomorrow. I've even got a gift for Em and something for Henry to give both of them, too. Although it wasn't much, spending this money was worth it! Hopefully, I'll get a lot of hours at my new job.

I quickly find their building—it's a beautiful old house with turrets. I snap a few pictures and email them to Megan from my phone, then walk back toward the campus.

It's too late to think about cabbing up to Boathouse Row and Em and James could be hours at the Liberty Bell. It's graduation day for the undergrads and there are a lot of students and their families happily milling around campus. Seeing all these families is bittersweet for me. After stopping at a shop to grab a muffin and bottled water, I decide to find that exact spot where Grandmother and I waited to meet up with Granddad four years ago. He ended up getting delayed, which was not an uncommon thing for him, and called to say he needed to make some last-minute changes to his lecture and couldn't meet us. Normally, Grandmother and I loved going to his lectures whenever we could because that was Granddad at his finest, plus, I always learned something. We didn't go sit in the seats that Granddad had reserved for us, but stood in the back until Grandmother's restlessness got the better of her. I didn't want to leave, because it was really interesting, but I wanted to take care of my Grandmother even more. When there was a break, we told Granddad we were leaving and went to dinner.

I think I'm close to that same grassy area when my eyes are drawn to a little copse of trees nearby. Leif is standing alone in the midst of them, arms folded across his chest. I move a little closer to him, wondering what he's doing there. He just seems to be scanning the green. I raise my hand to catch his attention right when I hear a girl shriek, "Vince!" He turns toward her, away from me, as she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms…and legs…around him. Oh…so that's who he was looking for. My hand falls back to my side. I watch as long as I can stand it—which is all of a millisecond—as the girl… woman…plies him with kisses. I quickly jog past the students and families toward the street. I stop to look back one last time from across the green and it's weird, but he seems to be looking at me, even though we are pretty far away from each other. The woman is standing next to him now, trying to regain his attention, I think. I turn and quickly scurry toward the street.

I find a cab and jump into it.

"Liberty Bell, please."

While we're still at the Liberty Bell, Leif…or _Vince _rather, texts James to say he is delayed and won't make it to lunch. He'll see us back at the house.

_Delayed. _Uh huh. De…_laid, _more like.

It's getting close to dinnertime, so instead of lunch, Em decides to stop in a few boutiques on the way back to where they parked the car. James and I follow dutifully behind her, chatting easily. Employing her new thriftiness, Em does actually peruse the sale racks, even if only perfunctorily. She buys some things and I drive us the few blocks back to the house.

James forages for a snack in the fridge while Em goes to hang up her new purchases. I take the picnic basket into the laundry room off the butler's pantry to put the quilt in the wash. I'm about start the washing machine when I notice those red ribbons from the flowers have fallen into the machine and I don't want them to turn the quilt pink. I pull them out as I hear Leif talking to James. I only feel a little guilty that I postpone pressing the start button to eavesdrop. Because apparently, this is my new thing.

"Liberty Bell," blah, blah, blah. "Dinner plans," blah, blah, blah. "How was your last race?" James

"Dinner's definitely on me tonight." Leif

"Good man. You went out with a bang." Pause. "What's wrong?" James.

Silence. Pacing. Garbled words.

"…day I obsessed about four years ago?" Leif.

"The stalking?"

"Well, I wouldn't quite use that word, but…"

"I'll never forget that because it took me weeks to finagle it out of you and when I did, it was so unlike you as to be almost shocking. You're not usually given to poetic flights of fancy. Especially regarding a _girl_." James.

_That girl I saw him with must be important to him, _I think to myself.

"…thought I saw her again…not the older one, just the younger… Schuylkill…"

_Dammit! Why do people have to pace around when I'm trying to eavesdrop? It's very frustrating when some of the words drop out! Or at least, why can't James be pacing instead of Leif._

"…again on the green…Could swear…saw her…"

Ugh…if he's going to talk about that girl I saw him with, I can do without that! My stomach can't handle it.

I start to ease out the laundryroom door, intending to sneak to the hallway and up the stairs, when I hear Leif say, "…just chasing ghosts for half the day again."

_Oh, so that's what we're calling pretty girls these days wearing tiny shorts who screech "Vince!" and wrap themselves around boys—_Ghosts_? She looked real to me. _

"...going to jump in the shower." I wait when I hear his tread on the stairs.

That reminds me of the washing I'm supposed to be doing. Even though it might not be the best thing for this old quilt, I move the setting to the hottest one and press start.

Gosh, what a shame it would be if there's only cold water left for Leif's shower.

I hang with Em and James at the counter bar munching on grapes and discussing tonight. It's going to be dinner at some place where they know the owners and then we'll see how the night unfolds. Em suggests a club afterwards.

I hear the shower turn off upstairs and I imagine what he…

"Earth to Ellawyn!" There is finger snapping in front of my face. I look at Em. "I asked what you were wearing tonight."

I wave my hands in front of my white dress to indicate, _this. _I hadn't thought about it. She primly shakes her head.

"It's comfortable," I shrug.

"So are pajamas, but you look like jailbait fresh out of a virginal country convent. Let us not forget you have a fake ID. James, we'll see you in an hour." She kisses his cheek and drags me up the stairs to my room.

"I really should've packed for you," she mutters after rifling through the closet. She emerges, clutching the one pair of heels I brought for tomorrow's graduation. "I'm going to grab some stuff from my room because I think I just bought the perfect thing at one of those boutiques for you today. I'll leave your clothes on the bed. Go! Shower!" She points toward the bathroom door.

I'll get undressed in the bathroom so Em doesn't walk back in midway through. She doesn't always knock. I kick of my shoes, grab my robe, and open the bathroom door. And there he is with a towel tucked around his waist, water dripping off his back, very much like I imagined him when I first saw him on that elevator. I can't move. The mirror is steamed up, or I could see him from the front, too. He is spraying that ocean and spice scent on his neck.

"What are you thinking?" he asks as he slowly turns around.

I clutch the robe I'm holding in front of me, burying my red face in its shawl collar. "Are you seriously fishing for a compliment? Don't you get enough of them?"

"I don't recall ever hearing one from _you, _so it might be well worth the earning of it."

I peek up from the robe. "I'll tell you later. Can I get in the shower now?"

He saunters out of the bathroom, closing his door behind him.

_Arrogante pendejo! Honestly, does he expect me to wrap myself around_ _him and ply him with kisses,_ I think as I step out of my dress and into the shower. That thought gets lodged in my head, unfortunately.

I use his body wash instead of my soap because it's got that same spicy ocean scent. I don't have time to wash my hair again because the hot water runs out pretty quickly. I shiver as I rinse off his body wash with cold water.


	25. Part 2 - Chapter 25

_**24…The City of Brotherly Love…**_

While waiting on Em upstairs, I use the time in my room to call Granddad, even though I can't understand him on the phone barely at all. But it doesn't matter because he doesn't answer. He didn't answer earlier today either. Same as before, I leave him a message and phone Bea instead. She tells me Henry is fine and not to worry. Then we make arrangements for us to have dinner with him tomorrow night when I get back to Manhattan. Or rather, _she _makes the arrangements; she is very specific about her instructions.

Em finally comes into my room in a low-cut black and white crocheted tank dress that hugs all of her curves. The thin red belt she has on emphasizes her tiny waist. She has high wedge sandals on and her perfect hair is flowing past her perfect delicate shoulders.

"James is going to have a heart attack when he sees you!"

"You think?" She does a twirl around; her dress is low cut in the back, too. "Stand up so I can see how that looks on you." I dutifully climb off the bed.

"You added a tank top underneath!" Em objects.

"It was completely see-through! I would've been uncomfortable all night. But I love the outfit, especially the leather skirt." Em had laid out for me a sheer black silk buttoned shirt and a really cool black quilted mini with a diagonal zipper and red trim on it. I'd added a black tank, which I'd luckily packed. It's only right now that I have a suspicion that Em bought this specifically for me. It's not her style at all.

"It's not leather. Neoprene, I think," she says. I have no idea what that is. "But it matched the only heels you brought, which, I might add, are sexy as hell." She eyes me, doing her usual inventory. "Perfect messy bun…perfect earrings… perfect necklaces….and those red shoes are just hot! I swear you do your make-up better than I do mine, but I want to add one more thing to your face, okay?" She pulls me into the bathroom.

Hand in hand and with fresh red lipstick on both our mouths, we enter an empty kitchen. Em starts to pull me toward the hall to find the boys when I remember the quilt. She follows me into the laundry room so I can put it in the dryer.

"Hey, I have an idea." She is holding one of the red grosgrain ribbons I'd left on top of the washer. "Come here." She ties one around my neck, knotting it in the back, and then adjusts the couple necklaces I have on around it. "It's weird, but there's something so sexy about this ribbon on you. I think I need one, too." I fix one on her neck.

"You're right," I say, seeing it on her. "It's very…_je ne sais quoi_."

"Uh huh. Leif's going to have a heart attack when he sees you!"

Dios mio, could she have said that any louder!

"Shhh! Em, I think you need to lay off the Leif stuff!" I lower my voice, pressing the start button on the dryer. "I don't think you're right about…you know…the attraction. There's nothing there, so please, don't try to push us together or anything, okay? Just let it be." I don't want to explain what I saw on the college green, or what I overheard earlier in this very room.

There are noises in the kitchen. "We'll see about that. Let's go." She turns to leave, but I don't follow her. Instead, I pray that we weren't overheard. Although, given my recent behavior it would serve me right.

"About damn time!" I hear Leif mutter as Em walks into the kitchen.

Em replies, "I can't help it if I had to wait for hot water. James, would you have wanted me to take a cold shower?"

"Good God, no, but I might need another one right now," he says in that plummy accent of his. "I must be the luckiest man on the planet. Come into the sitting room. I have a drink ready for you."

I listen to their footfalls in the hall and take a deep breath to walk out to the kitchen. And it's me that has the heart attack.

Leif is leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, glowering again, but that's not why. Nor is it that I hear a murmured string of what I think are foreign curse words come out of his mouth.

It's that he's dressed all in black and he looks absolutely…_fierce._

And stunning.

And all man.

An "Oh!" escapes my lips. I want to wrap myself around him like that girl did.

His black shirt is kind of military-looking with epaulettes that have subtle red piping on the shoulder, and metal buttons, black jeans, black belt, and black brogues with red stitching. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms. He's got several leather and metal bracelets on. And that cuff. And that black hair curling over his ears and forehead. And those eyes.

It takes me a moment to realize I'm looking him up and down, staring wordlessly. It takes me another moment to realize he's doing the same. My eyes move up to his and he looks stricken. Does he not like what I'm wearing? Because nobody could look as good as he does and it's just mean if he expects it.

"Wha...what are you thinking?" I stammer out, self-consciously putting my arms around my middle.

"Exactly what he said," the sea god mutters cryptically. He stalks over to stand right in front of me, his eyes coming to rest on the red ribbon around my neck. He pulls one of my arms out from my side. He stoops to kiss my hand with those plush lips, then tucks it in his elbow. "I'm also thinking you need to stick close to me tonight."

"If you insist." I smile.

Honestly, why am I even surprised when the cab drops us off at the same restaurant on the Schuylkill near Boathouse Row that my grandmother took me to before? I remember Grandmother explaining it was in the building of the old Philly Water Works. Why am I surprised that when the elegant hostess sees us walk in, or more specifically, when she sees _Leif_ walk in, her eyes light up.

"Vince! I'm thrilled you decided to come here before you leave." She wraps him in a warm hug. "We are absolutely inundated with graduation dinners tonight, and have a private graduation party out on the terrace so I can't seat you out there, but we'll be sure to make it a real celebration for you."

_I bet you will, _I think before I can even stop myself from this snide thought.

She hugs James next, who introduces the hostess to Em, explaining, "Her boyfriend Bobby is the Sous-Chef here."

When Leif introduces me, she good-naturedly winks at him saying, "I approve." Oh, she thinks I'm his girlfriend. It gives me a little flush of pleasure, even though she doesn't know how wrong she is.

I see quite a lot of what seems to be students dining with their families when we're ushered to our rounded booth. And groups of students together, too. Why does it feel as if everyone is looking at us? Em and I squeeze in the middle with James and Leif at the ends.

And it starts almost immediately.

First, a bottle of champagne appears that no one ordered. The waiter who pours it indicates a table on the other side of the dining room where two young couples are lifting glasses towards us. Leif and James lift theirs in reply and I pick up mine only when Em elbows me. But I'm not about to drink it, not even a sip; I've not eaten but a couple bites today and I know somehow I need to keep my wits about me tonight.

An order of steamed mussels appears courtesy of another table and more glasses are held aloft from across the elegant dining table. I'm not touching those. Then an appetizer of grilled octopus—I'm definitely not touching _that. _Finally, there are some crab cakes and then flatbread appetizers and I eat those voraciously, only stopping to lift my glass when required.

It's not just food and drinks that come. We four barely get a chance to talk to each other because a near-constant stream of people stops by our table. Em and I keep giving each other looks of awe. There's the captain of the men's swim team with some teammates who almost gush over Leif. One of them says wistfully, "If only I could've convinced you to join, but I understand." Another makes a jokey bow to him, exclaiming, "To the veritable god of the river!" Em and I shoot each other looks and I snort indelicately. Leif must've heard me because he glances over with a smirk. There are a couple members of the Penn rowing team who comment on what I assume to be Leif's race from earlier. "I heard you did well below the dam today. Made some good money." Another one says, "They don't call you 'Invincible' for nothing." There are knowing looks and pats on the back. Oysters and shrimp appear at the table. It's not just Leif that people greet, though. Both boys are near constantly standing up to hug people, or shake hands warmly. There's a whole lot of bro-ing going on. We always get introduced and I note that nearly everyone looks at me with surprise when they see me next to Leif. Sometimes it's only a raised eyebrow. Em never gets that same look of astonishment. I wonder if it's because these people are used to seeing him with shorty-shorts girl from the college green.

Two orders of scallops appear from two different tables.

When there's a break between all these visits, Em asks James, "What's going on? You two are like rock stars!"

He replies, "We made quite a few connections here. Plus, Leif is something of a legend. I promise to tell you about it later." But he doesn't have time to explain further because a new group has come to the table. "Hey, brothers!" On the whole, women, I notice, unless they're part of a couple or in a larger group, mostly stay away. Strange.  
When Em looks at me, shaking her head in awe, I smile back saying, "I don't like boat whistles." There's no need to invoke our secret code because both James and Leif are standing with these latest guys, but I want to talk to her without the possibility of them overhearing. We slide out of the booth and make our way to the restroom. Luckily, we have it to ourselves for the moment.

We both go into stalls, with Em calling out, "Contrary to what James just said, it's not only Leif who seems to have achieved legendary status. Did you see that last group of their MBA classmates? It was like they revered James. It just has a different vibe to it than with all those athletic guys who were practically genuflecting to their sea god. You'd better believe I'm going to find out what this is about!"

"I have an inkling. About some of it, at least." I tell her what I've figured out, without explaining precisely how I did.

She says, "It's cool, though, isn't it? To see them in their element? Where they've lived for the last six years? This is a new side to both of them for me." I nod realizing that I've not really seen them out at all, aside from that first brief dinner. The rest of the times have been in private homes, here and at The Rambler, or Henry's Rehab. Well, aside from my glimpses of Leif earlier today. And that damn elevator.

I let her go back to the table alone as I want to make a quick stop at the outside dining area where my grandmother and I sat last time. It looks different, though. Now there's a tent on one side of the patio with a huge dinner party in full swing. I look out over the river, thinking how funny it is that cycles seem to be repeating today. I remember sitting out here with Rosamunde as she looked out over the river pensively. In one of the rare times she talked about my dad, she told me how she brought him here during a visit to her parents' when he was little. This was long before it was a restaurant. He was fascinated by the structure of the little Schuylkill dam which we could see from our table. My dad grew up to be an engineer of way bigger dams and other large public works projects.

I'm pulled from my reveries when I hear, "Hey, beautiful. You need a drink." I turn to see a young man, mid-twenties or so with sandy blonde hair and twinkling green eyes. What with his tanned good looks, he should be in a Ralph Lauren ad. He's holding out a glass of champagne.

"I'm sorry, but I don't take drinks from strangers," I say flatly. This was a strict rule of my grandparents. And Bea. And Em.

"Well then, let me introduce myself. I'm Varick Falk, but most people call me Vick." He holds out his hand. I see something like consternation cross his face when I don't take it immediately. But that name rings a bell and I'm trying to recall where I've heard it.

Finally I take his hand, exclaiming, "From Falk Atlantic Investments, right?" I remember from my internet searches that the head of Falk has two sons, both of whom work there.

"The very one. My family owns it," he says with no small amount of cockiness. "You've heard of it?" He holds onto my hand a little longer than strictly necessary.

"Not only have I heard of it, but I just got hired there. I start Monday."

"What a coincidence! Are you graduating at Penn?" There is a distinct gleam in his eye.

"Nope. Just got out of Stanford. What about you?"

"This is my alma mater, I graduated a few years ago. I'm back visiting friends."

I hear a woman's voice call out from the tent, "Vick!" A drunken whiny woman's voice. Sheesh, it's like nails on a chalkboard. She sort of looks like a female version of Varick, all wealthy and tan and well-dressed. "Come back to the paaaaarty."

"Chillax!" he calls over his shoulder harshly before turning back to me. "Hey, I noticed you with Vince in the dining room. Are you one of his many girls or something?"

"No!" I didn't mean it to come out quite so harshly, but I'm reeling from the thought of his _many girls._ I explain, "He's sort of a friend of a friend."

"And how well do you know him?" He searches my eyes.

"Not well. I just met him a couple weeks ago." I'd like to know him a lot better, but I'm not about to say that, nor do I bring up the fact that he's sort of a family friend.

"And you know he just got hired at my father's company, too, right? In the _mailroom_." He says disdainfully.

"Yes, it's another crazy coincidence," is all I reply, but his tone kind of irks me. I realize I feel a bit of protectiveness over Leif, even if he's probably the last man on Earth who needs protecting.

He pauses a moment, as if having an internal struggle. "I probably shouldn't say anything, but you seem like a nice girl and I want to tell you…just…watch out for him. Vince is not a good guy. Some might even call him a violent, lying son-of-a-bitch. There were allegations…" He trails off, watching me intently. "I tried to talk my father out of hiring him, but the guy who runs the mailroom has my father wrapped around his little finger and... Just be careful around Vince."

I look up at his earnest handsome face, wanting to ask a million questions, but not knowing where to start. I don't get the chance because the drunk girl is whining at him again. "Viiiick!"

"Jesus Christ!" he mutters under his breath. "Hey, I better get back to the party. It was good meeting you, though. Keep in mind what I said, okay? Be careful." He hands me the glass and heads into the tent.

I turn back to the river, hearing the drunk girl ask, "Who the hell is that skank?" She obviously didn't have a grandmother to teach her better.

I stay out here a few more minutes, pondering this new information. I start to take a drink of the champagne when I hear that familiar sexy voice behind me.

"I've been looking all over for you!" He sounds almost frantic.

I don't turn toward him, "Sorry. Just reminiscing." He grabs my arm to turn me toward him, pulling me close. His eyes going to the ribbon around my neck.

"Is everything all right?" he asks, tenderly brushing a wisp of hair off my cheek. I take a step back, not because I want to—every impulse in my very being is urging me toward him—but because Vick might be watching. I'd just told him I barely knew Leif and I don't want him to think I was lying. It's true though, I barely know this compelling man staring down at me.

I decide not to tell Leif who I just met.

He looks almost hurt for a moment, before he turns toward the doors into the dining room, holding out his hand. "Let's go back to the table." I don't take it and instead move in front of him to open the door myself. One surreptitious glance at the party tent shows me Vick is indeed watching. He lifts his glass in a salute, smiling.

We're not back for a minute when a man in a white apron and hat comes to our table carrying a large plate of some steak appetizer. This must be Bobby the Sous Chef. As soon as he puts it down, he pulls Leif then James into yet another bro hug. "I made this special with a new marinade I'm working on. You'll have to tell me what you think. And dinner's on me." James starts to protest, but he shuts him down. "I've made way too much money off you two to hear any lip about it." He eyes all the half-eaten appetizers on our table smiling smugly. In his delightful Philly accent, he adds "I happen to know you've not actually ordered anything yet, and by the looks of all these plates, I'm going to get off easy in buying dinner." I'm half full already from picking at all this.

Leif introduces Em and me and there's another eyebrow cocked in surprise.

While they continue talking, I whisper to Em, "See, I think I'm right." About a couple things, actually, but what I'm talking about now is Bobby's money comment.

"I'll wait until we leave to ask James," she whispers back. "And by the way, while Leif was looking for you, I talked to James about the whole dating thing. I'm working on him slowly. I'll fill you in when we're alone."

"Stop, please. You're wrong there."

Em looks at me sweetly, whispering, "Sometimes you don't have the sense God gave you, little chitlin." She downs an entire glass of champagne.

"What are you two whispering about?" James sits, putting his arm around Em.

"We're talking about our two rock stars," she says. Her sweet Southern accent is thick and I have no doubt she'll get the scoop out of him. I try some of the steak and it's melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Now that I've gotten a decent food base, I think I could actually have a drink. I look around, but there's not a drop left of any champagne anywhere on the table—and we've received multiple bottles. Em must've drunk mine, too.

"Well, that's a funny story…" which is all James gets out before a young man stops by with what are presumably his parents and younger sister in tow.

"Mom, Dad! These are the guys I've been telling you about!" I only realize he said that first part in Spanish when he switches to English to make the introductions. James and Leif both stand up to shake their hands, congratulating him on his graduation. We get introduced as well. I notice the boy, Martin, looks at Em like she's a goddess. He goes back to Spanish to say to his family, "These two are the real reason I can start my MBA in September. Jaime was the best tutor and Vincente hooked me up with that scholarship and the guaranteed internship at the company for next summer if I keep my grades up. They can use some Spanish speakers." I love the way he pronounced both James and Leif's name in the Spanish way while talking to his parents.

He turns back to our table saying in English, "I'm the first one in my family to go to college and my company's profits are going to ensure Rosa gets to Bryn Mawr in two years." He puts his arm around his sister. "I'm telling you, my sister's going to be the real star of mi familia." Rosa shyly glances up at Leif and her cheeks turn the pink on her dress. I immediately want to put my arms around her and tell her _Entiendo_—I understand. Only too well.

As they wrap up their conversation, I'm struck by the fact that my grandmother, Rosamunde went to Bryn Mawr as well. I can't help but smile at this young Rosa, who is wearing a dress printed with cherry blossoms—my grandmother's favorite. _Yep…Cycles keep repeating all over the place_. I make a note to tell Henry about this when I get back. The parents thank the boys in heavily-accented English, but it wouldn't matter what language it's in; their faces say it all anyway. Leif takes Rosa's hand, saying to her, "You already are a star." Her face goes from pink to puce as both Em and I giggle. _Entiendo, Rosita. Entiendo!_

What a shameless flirt he is!

As the family turns to head back to their table, I hear Martin say proudly to his parents in Spanish, "I'm going to buy their dinner as a surprise and a thank you!"

I translate what I heard and James exclaims, "We can't let him do that!"

Leif grins at James across the table. "Sure we can." James regards him as if he's grown another head. "It might be important to Martin. Besides…remember what Bobby said."

"Ahh…of course." James finally gets it. "Good thinking, man."

When our waiter comes back to the table Leif finds out that he's also the server at Martin's. Leif instructs him not to tell Martin that Bobby's buying our dinner and to let him think he was. What's more, Leif says that he'll make it worth his while if he declines any tip from that table. Our waiter agrees to tell Martin that it's a special restaurant policy that they don't accept tips from undergrads who were graduated from Penn today.

It brings to mind something Leif said to me during our weird little verbal tug-of-war at the Rambler.

I sweetly smirk, "Isn't that _lying_ to him?"

He narrows his eyes at me before his lip lifts up in a half-smile. He obviously remembers it, too.

We leave soon after, never having ordered anything ourselves. I can't tell exactly how many hundred-dollar bills Leif leaves on the table.


	26. Part 2 - Chapter 26

_**25…Under The Surface…**_

Leif seems to be so comfortable in his own skin, but he's clearly not now. I know it has something to do with what's just beneath the surface of this dive bar in the Brewerytown section of Philly. I just don't know what it is. Yet.

Earlier, really only minutes ago outside the restaurant, when we were all taking photos of each other with the river as the backdrop, it was James who suggested we come here. When I saw Leif shoot his best friend a scathing look, I'm the one who pushed it. I innocently said we should take a vote. I shot Em my own look when she didn't immediately raise her hand to vote my way, but she eventually did, even through her Mrs. Babic-like thousand-yard stare. When Leif angrily pulled James aside, I listened. Pffft…Of course I did. I couldn't hear what Leif said, but I heard some of James' reply to him, "Let's go for closure. It was a big part of our lives and I want Emory to know _everything_. To know _me_." That decided it for me. I didn't need to hear the rest of their heated exchange. We were going to this damn bar come hell or high water.

Right when we pulled up, though, Em said out loud, "I don't like boat whistles." Actually, she really only got out a wispy "…boat whistles." She'd obviously had too much to drink and I would've ordinarily stayed with her. But instead I jumped out of the cab after we worked out that James would take her back to the townhouse. She'd be safe and besides, I was on a mission.

I was already seated at the bar not far from the door before Leif furiously stalked in. "We're leaving. Now."

I replied, "You're welcome to, but I'm staying."

"No you are not," he said softly, making me shiver.

"I now know one of your nicknames is Invincible. But you're not the boss of me." I sounded pretty cool, but still had to look away when his face turned apoplectic.

He whispered in my ear, "I'd be only too happy to turn you in for a fake I.D."

I had to steel myself against both the threat in his words and the fact that the whole side of my body he was pressed against heated to boiling. My ear, I'm sure, was bright red. I took a deep breath before shrugging, "That's okay. I'm not ordering alcohol."

It was right then the bartender came up smiling, "Vince! It's been too long!" There was a bro handshake across the bar and I didn't learn anything except our bartender's name was Joe. "What'll you two have?"

Without looking at Leif, I quickly ordered a burger and fries with a Coke. I'm not even sure if he ordered anything what with the deep steadying breaths I was taking to keep up my cool facade. Once Joe left—Leif didn't introduce me—I braved a glance at him, and had to turn away again, fast. He was still pissed!

"What?" I said, not daring to look at him. "So sue me. I'm still hungry." That part was at least half true. I kind of was. Although actually eating with all these butterflies in my stomach might be an issue.

And here we are. Leif slides onto the stool next to me. His furious energy is blasting me. It's coming at me like a wave. Or an explosion. But my stubborn Taurus side, as Em calls it, is holding its own. Because more than anything else right now, I want to _know._

It starts up again almost immediately. But with a slightly different vibe.  
"Holy effin' shit! If it's isn't the fist of fury himself!" This, from a man at a table halfway down the bar. This place is loud, crowded with people talking and a jukebox playing in the corner. But with all that, the whole front half of the bar can surely hear him. The man starts to get up from his hightop table. Leif though, doesn't let him come to us, he goes to him. I pretend not to have heard, staying facing the front on my stool, but yeah, I'm watching them give each other bro hugs.

Peripheral vision is a beautiful thing!

They stay talking for a while, but I can't hear them for the most part. More guys have crowded around Leif, clamoring for his attention. There are hugs and pats on the back, smiles all around. I see him glance back at me a few times. I just sip my coke, cool as a damn cucumber. On the outside, at least.

A girl slides into the group of guys to give Leif a different kind of hug altogether. I notice he glances at me before gently disengaging her arms from around him. With Leif's back to me again, I turn my head to watch her leave because sometimes peripheral vision is just not enough. The guys make some smartass comments about her. I don't have to hear them to know they're being crude. Leif seems to shut them down and the guys look a little chastened. One of them puts his hands up in supplication saying, "Just jokin' around. No harm." I half hear it and am half reading this guy's lips. I'm a damn good interpreter. Leif shakes his head at the guy and I give him silent props for that; Grandmother would approve. The girl, though, does not look at all pleased when she rejoins her group of girlfriends at their table. All four of them start whispering about Leif. Or Vince, rather. They're too far away to have a hope in hell of my hearing them, but it doesn't matter. Their scathing stares say it all. With Leif at the center, the group of guys keep talking and laughing.

It takes me a moment to understand that there's a hand waving in front of my face. I follow it to my left to see a guy sitting on Leif's bar stool. There are two friends of his right behind him, all looking at me. Sitting guy leans close. Too close. But I don't even care about that, I'm just annoyed because he's taking my focus away from my detective work, my mission. "I asked you—twice!—what you were drinking."

For a second there, it's almost as if he's speaking Polish or Punjabi or any other language I don't know. I shake my head. "What? Huh?"

He doesn't answer. He's not even looking at me any longer, but behind me. "Whoa…Vince! Hey! Long time, no…" he trails off right when I feel Leif press against my back, putting an arm around my shoulder. "Oh…sorry, was this your seat?" This guy can't get up fast enough and with a quick pat on Leif's back and a "Good to see you, dude," the guy and his friends are gone.

Leif slides into the vacated stool, just as the bartender, Joe, slides two baskets of burgers and fries and a caddy of condiments in front of us. I turn back toward the bar to squirt some ketchup on my fries. Leif takes the bottle from me to do the same to his. Neither of us says a word as we start eating.

Two shots of some clear liquid appear before us and Joe tilts his head to indicate another hightop table a little further down. It's those same three guys Leif chased off. He lifts up his glass toward them and they do the same with theirs and they all down it. I start to pick up the other one, but Leif grabs it before I can, slinging it back. We continue eating silently.

A group of girls walks in and spotting Leif, immediately gather around him. He pivots on his bar stool to greet them cordially, even kindly. He asks about people they all know—a Tony, a Randy, a Laycee. A Frankie and a Jolene and a Jaylene. Apparently there's a Little Iggie and a Big Iggie to go with an Ignatius Senior. Who knew? They ask after James. I listen, absorbing everything I can beneath the surface. I try not to stiffen— too much—when he casually drapes a hand on my leg while they're talking, but he still doesn't introduce me, so I follow his lead and don't introduce myself. I do turn to smile politely at them after that because it seems rude not to. Two of the four have some really big hair. And every single one of them is staring at Leif's hand. Then at me. Then the hand. I nod and turn back around to continue eating my burger, wishing Em were here. She would bring up her country cousins who presumably all have voluminous manes. I've never met them because they're all in South Georgia—I've only been to Atlanta with her—but Em loves them so, so much and I think she would love these girls. They don't stay very long after the hand, though.

But it's in thinking of Miss Emory Clare Buchanan that I understand better what I'm hearing—the subtext of this conversation and others I've heard tonight. It's what Henry calls The Thing Behind The Thing. He claims that identifying and understanding The Thing Behind The Thing is what made him good at interpretation. More so even than his knowledge of languages. I understand something right now, even if it's only a piece of it. Even if I can't make sense of the whole. I keep listening.

Some other people come up while we eat, in groups or alone. Leif doesn't leave his stool again, just swivels around with each new visitor. He turns down a lot of offers of drinks. Everyone asks after James. And everyone asks him about graduating.

I get another coke, then another, and I listen, catching wisps of conversations, which I file away.

"This new crop are a bunch o' wussies. It's not the same as when…"

"We all miss you something fierce, but we understand. You know I took James' advice and invested my winnings in…"

"This whole hood is gen…gentri…Whaddaya call that thing where rich people move in and harsh everyone's mellow? Yeah, yeah…that! It's getting gentrified. I still live here in BTown because my Mom's house is paid off, but some of our gang are selling out. Robbie C. up and went to Manayunk…"

"Remember when you had to pull that ugly as hell Jersey kid outta the Delaware? And his brother? He looked like a drowned rat coughin' on the shore and that only improved the son-of-a-bitch…"

"I still never seen nothing like the one with you and Dominic. I lost rent that month. Should'na bet against ya. James warned me…"

"My nose never looked the same and Carla says I snore like a steam train now. But I'm still proud it was you…"

And there is this series of gems from one boisterous group of guys. "I'm not gay or nothing…not that there's anything wrong with it…but Vince you were damn beautiful to watch in every single one of your matches on land or sea. You turned me on nearly as much as my ex, Brianna, did when she did that thing with her tong... _Oof!_ That hurt!" One of the guys in the group must've hit him. It's all I can do to not turn in my seat to look at them. There's laughter all around. "Hey! I'm just sayin." Someone else says, "No one was as vicious as your ex was. Bri and Vince ever went 'round, it'd be the first time I wouldn't throw down a bill in his corner." Murmured agreements. More hoots of laughter. I think my lip's going to bleed because I'm biting it so hard to keep from doing the same. "Did you hear she's with Jimmy now?" "Jimmy A or Jimmy Pascal?" "Seriously? He's a prick!" "Yeah, he is, but we go way back, so what can you do." "You think Bri's still doing that thing with Jimmy? _Oof!..._"Hey! That hurt!" When they finally leave to join some other friends in the back of the bar, I do peek at them. I can't help it. There are six of them, all in plaid shirts and I think I love every single one of them. I smile watching their retreating backs wishing so, so badly that Henry could've been here. He'd love them, too.

I've slowly eaten all my fries and half of my burger and I can't eat another bite. Leif's burger basket is long since gone. When he swivels back around, he asks Joe for the check. Joe first says, "You know your money's no good here Vince!" Then he leans in with a devilish smile. "Four different people took care of your bill." He winks, patting his jeans pocket. "Thanks for that. Don't be a stranger, brother." He turns to take another order.

Leif chuckles at Joe, shaking his head. Then he looks right at me. Intently. He pops the entire rest of my burger in his mouth, saying around it, "_Now _can we leave!" It's the first thing he's said to me since he threatened to turn me in for my ID. An idle threat, I knew.

At least I'm pretty sure it was.

"You shouldn't talk with your mouth full! It's disgusting!" I admonish, wiping my hands on a napkin. That's the first thing I've said to him since "You're not the boss of me." But he knows what I really mean.

Leif slides off his seat. He holds out his hand with a begrudging half smile on his face, maybe even a hint of respect there.

He never introduced me. Not once. And we didn't even talk because he's used to getting his way and being in control and he didn't and he wasn't and he was pissed about it. I gave him space and didn't intrude, but he knew I was listening. I can't pinpoint the moment precisely, but sometime during this stop at this wonderful dive bar, he'd just given up. I wore him down. Even if he didn't want to let me in, he accepted that I wasn't going anywhere.

I take his hand, of course I do. And I give him a huge smile, brimming with triumph. He's not so Invincible after all.

Outside the bar, he asks if I want a cab. I don't. "Are you sure you can walk in those heels?" He looks down at my shoes with a gleam in his eye.

There's no way I'd take a cab no matter if my feet were bound ancient Chinese-styles because walking will get me unadulterated time alone with him. And this time I'm actually going to ask all those questions that are reverberating around in my head.

"You seem to pay a lot of attention to my _shoes_." I say with mock arrogance, again mirroring something he said to me before.

He narrows his eyes and a deep growl emanates from his chest. It does weird things to my body. "These shoes are worth paying attention to. So is this." He reaches over to stroke the ribbon on my neck.

I'm struck mute at his touch. We stroll silently as I try to gather my wits again.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

"The same thing I've been thinking every time you've asked that question," I answer truthfully. Well, mostly. "I want to know you." The last part comes out like a plea.

He tenses. I can feel it in my hand he's holding. "Why?"

"I hear such different accounts of you that I can't quite rectify."

He rounds on me, blocking the sidewalk. "And do you always believe everything you hear." I shrink at his glare, but I am too determined to let it derail me. For long.

I take a deep breath, trying for casualness. "Please! Don't insult me. You didn't know my grandmother, but do you forget who my grandfather is? Readily accepting someone else's opinion on anything is just vapid, although it's often done. They've always taught me that an observation says more about the _observer _than the _observed._" I meet his eyes, thinking about what Varick Falk had said.

"And what have you observed?" he challenges.

Deep breath. "For one thing, you get angry when you don't get your way, which you are so obviously used to. James just ignores it, probably because he's used to it, too, by now." He's glaring at me, but I don't shrink this time. Well, mostly. "You're kind of proving my point right now."

"Let's see how you like these observations," he smirks. "You worry about everyone around you so you don't have to face your own fears."

This is like a slap and I cannot deny that it stings. I drop his hand and put my arms around my middle, but parry back muttering, "Still proving my point." I start walking again.

He catches up quickly. "Alright, what do you want to know?" he asks tersely.

"Why did you put your hand on my leg in front of those girls?" Geez! Of all the questions I have, I ask that one first? I swear I can still feel his hand on the exact place he laid it on my leg.

"Those girls gossip like hens, and I know they'll spread the word."

"That wasn't sexist at all," I murmur, pondering this for a moment.

"Think of it like a kind of closure." I wait, hoping he'll fill the silence with a clearer explanation of this cryptic comment. "I want to leave here as, uh…as _cleanly _as possible."

"So I was a kind of girlfriend _beard, _so to speak?" This thought excites me a little until it occurs to me that he felt safe to put his hand on my leg, because he doesn't find me remotely attractive. I'm firmly in the friend zone. Now the thought repels me. That's probably why he made a point to introduce me at the restaurant, too. He had to have seen all the cocked eyebrows and surprised looks. "You were using me to sort of let down all the girls you've dated?"

"I have never dated anyone."

"Don't be disingenuous!" He doesn't know what I saw and overheard.

"And don't call me a liar! I have never had a girlfriend. Just like someone I know who's never had a boyfriend." His angry tone tells me he's actively trying to sting me again.

"Why not?" I ask.

"I don't have the time nor the inclination. Why not you?"

"Exactly what you said." Until now, that is. I glare at him until he takes my hand and starts walking again. I blurt out, "Why do you hold my hand?" I probably already know the answer now—I'm _safe._

He drops my hand, but keeps walking, both of us facing forward. "Would you rather I didn't?"

"It's not that, it's just that half the time you seem like you can't stand me and yet…" I don't know how to finish this as every one of our interactions gets jumbled in my mind.

"Right back at you," he says cryptically.

"What do you mean by that?" I stop to look at him.

"Half the time you seem like you can't stand _me_."

"That's because half the time you're a jackass!" I can't believe I just said that.

"That's because half the time you piss me off!" He's glaring fiercely at me.

"Why?" I parry back, my voice rising. "What have I ever done to you?"

"Because you won't stay in your place!" he practically yells and hisses all at once and I back up a pace as he advances, fists clenched, his instant rage blasting me.

"What does that mean?" I whisper, watching a kaleidoscope of emotions cross his face.

"I don't know," he whispers back, almost to himself. He looks…_lost _as we continue to stare at each other. I see a flash of a little boy, not the fierce man in front of me. I tentatively reach my hand up to his soft and stubbly cheek and he leans into it, closing his eyes. He puts his hand over mine on his cheek.

"I couldn't stand it if you hated me." He opens his eyes at my words.

"I don't h…" he falters, looking almost panicked before the inscrutable mask slips down over his features. He takes my hand off his cheek, but holds onto it as he turns to start walking again. It is only as I follow him that I notice a few people in the street have stopped to watch us—it is a graduation weekend night, after all—but I don't have time to be embarrassed about causing a spectacle.

"It started because I wasn't sure you could stand on your own once I carried you to the sofa after you fell in the hallway." It takes me a moment to realize he's answering my question about holding my hand. I can't keep up with his verbal and emotional pendulum. "And it seemed…_comforting_…I guess, so I kept doing it."

"Comforting to whom?" I ask, but only get the barest shrug in reply as we continue walking slowly down the street.

"Now I've got one for you. What was it about that recording that set you off? You were just…_gone _for a minute. Like you lost time." I stumble over nothing on the sidewalk and he tightens his hold on my hand, stopping our movement. I can't look at him, but feel his eyes piercing me. He gently takes my chin and moves my head to face him. "Maybe I want to know you, too." I finally meet his beautiful deep pools of ocean water. I don't know what he sees in my expression, but his fierce eyes soften. "We can start with another question. Why did you tell me your name was Lucinda Grace? I can't figure that out for the life of me. Did you just make up some random name?"

I can't help it, a small giggle of relief escapes me and I see relief in his eyes, too. "Well, I sort of didn't say Lucinda." At that, he shoots me one of his patented smirks. "Okay, well, I was watching you trying to wrench my shoe out of the elevator gap and it reminded me of Cinderella. You just assumed Lucinda when you thought you heard Cinda. But I was actually trying to say Cinderella." His eyes go flat. I guess he doesn't know the story. "You know…the fairy tale? Cinderella? Where the handsome Prince Charming has her shoe?"

"I'm not exactly a fairy tale kind of guy. But…am I to understand that you're billing me as a handsome prince?"

I roll my eyes at him. "Fishing for compliments again? When you have girls throwing themselves at…" Mierda! Didn't mean to go there.

"But you said you didn't find me attractive." _What? _I never said that. What's more, I've certainly never _thought _that. I mean…how could I? He pulls me down the street again and I could swear he's hiding his face from me. "So…_Grace_, where did that come from?"

"Um…because I was the opposite of grace? I was tripping all over the place." My face goes red at the memory and I'm glad he's not seeing it. "It was a joke, but it's not my fault it if you were too obtuse to get the full scope of its brilliance."

"You're just hilarious," he deadpans, glancing at me askance. "For my next question…"

"Nope," I cut him off. "My turn. Your friends bet on your rowing races and maybe swimming races, too, right?" Whoa! His hand is like stone now. "That's why you didn't join the official college teams, even though you were probably good enough to. Because you couldn't bet on them." There is a long, long pause.

"Yes."

"But there's more to it, isn't there?" He doesn't answer, nor will he look my way as we walk. "Are you going to make me pull it out of you piece by piece?"

"You've had your question. Why are you the girl from nowhere?"

"Como?"

"Emory called you the girl from nowhere and everywhere."

Ohmigod! I have to search my mind before I remember that that's from the dinner at The Rambler. Has he had that question in his mind about me this whole time? Like I've had questions about him?

"Prior to Stanford, the longest I've lived anywhere was maybe eighteen months in D.C. The second longest was a year or so in London. Other than that, we've moved all over the world every few months. Or even weeks."

"You're not from New York then?"

"Combined over the years, the time I've been in New York would really only add up to a couple months. This is the longest I've been here all at one time."

"But your family's had the apartment—The Rambler as you call it—for a long time?"

"My grandparents have had it for ages; since the sixties or seventies, I think. Mostly as a place for my late grandmother to house the furniture she's collected from around the world and to create those wonderful rooms."

"She was an interior designer?"

"No. My family has talked about this at length with her. She probably would've been some kind of architect or industrial designer or something if it had been different times, like if she was coming of age now. But she was a Main Line Philly debutante who married a State Department master translator. She expressed that part of herself by building things or remaking whatever space we've lived in, even though it wasn't part of an official job. She could do anything."

"I would've liked to have known her. She seems interesting." He sounds almost wistful. "So what do you consider your home?"

"Not a place, like Em being from Georgia, or you being from Massachusetts or James from Exeter. My home has always been wherever my…family is." I'd started to say "grandparents," but I don't want to invite further inquiry about my parents.

"Where were you born?"

"Hey! You've snuck a lot of questions in. So I get a few now." His hand tenses again as I blurt out the first thing in my mind. "Why did James call you the poor bastard from down the way?" So much for brain filters.

"My mother never married my father, so I am truly a bastard by definition. Growing up, I never knew him and my mother never talked about him except to say that he was an American of Norwegian decent. As for the poor part, we simply never had money."

"Do you have brothers or sisters?" He shakes his head, his hand harder than stone. "The explorer Leif Erickson was Norse. Is that how you got your first name?" He nods once. "Does it bother you that I asked?"

"Every question bothers me," he replies tersely. "You bother me!"

"Why?"

"Enough!" He's barely containing his anger. "Enough!" He's barely containing his anger.

"Just one more."

"I said, _enough_!" He drops my hand and I have to pick up the pace to keep up with him.

"Fine." We walk silently for a while as I knit some things together in my mind and change tacks entirely. I don't want to do this with him anymore. This whole back and forth thing where we both push each other's buttons. I'll have to push another of couple of his buttons to get there, though. I gather my courage. "Another observation then. I was only half right before. You do get angry when you don't get your way—I was correct there—but you also get mad when something makes you uncomfortable, like with personal questions. Which, now that I think about it, is really just another form of not getting your way. Anger is your defense mechanism. Hence, the jackassness that I referred to earlier. But I also noticed tonight that you are so loved…" Leif has stopped walking and is fully facing me. He's looking at me like I'm an alien being. "Yes…_loved…_and respected by a lot of people; you're not an angry ass to _them_. Which brings up another thing I was only partially right about. And that's that you aren't a jackass _half _the time, like I said, just _some _of the time and it seems to be directed at me a lot. So, maybe if you try to keep your jackassness to under fifty percent of the time around me, then I'll try to learn to accept it like James does. Okay?" I have rendered him speechless as he continues gaping at me with an array of fleeting emotions crossing his face.

Finally, he rallies, venomously spitting out, "I didn't ask you to accept me."

"Hmm…Kind of proving my point again. Look, we're going to be around each other even more starting in a couple of days, so maybe we should both try a little. But if you'll recall from a few moments ago, I was hoping you'd keep it _under _fifty percent. As in, less than." I make a suppressing motion with my hands. "Not over. _Under._"

He continues to glare at me. Incredulity seems to overtake all the other expressions on his face. "It seems I was wrong, too. You don't piss me off _half _the time, you piss me off _all _the time." He takes my hand again and starts walking. "I thought your friend said you were the quiet one. I like that one better."

"Key word: _under,_" I mutter, doing the suppressing motion with the hand he's not holding. I glance up at his profile and I might see the tiniest twitch of a smile.

I let go of the rest of the questions I have for him—for now—as we walk the rest of the way to the townhouse in something approaching a comfortable silence. Yep, not so Invincible after all.

Sleep is proving impossible at the end of this strange, exhilarating and emotionally fraught day and night. I swear it has to do with the weight of this ghostly house, more so than what I learned and saw today that has made my mind and legs so restless. Also, I keep trying to tear this red ribbon off my neck, but the knot is tied really well and the more I pull at it, the more it feels like it's strangling me. Maybe I can find some scissors or a knife for this thing. I finally give up and get up and once I do, it loosens its hold and I can't even feel the ribbon any more. It's not cold so I don't bother with a robe over the thin frilly white old-school nightgown I got in Ireland years ago. I tiptoe past Leif's closed door to make my way down the stairs. I could really use a proper Walkabout, but it's the middle of the night, so I'll just pad around the house until I can find some stillness.

It is right when I have the thought that this house is quiet as the grave with everyone asleep that I think of how Leif said he liked the quiet girl better, but I'm not really sure he's even met her. The structure of my life and of _me _is new and keeps changing since I've been back. Maybe even more so since meeting that compelling, fierce, intense, angry, and sometimes even kind man—he seems to bring out some other part of me that I can't quite keep a grasp on. The quiet one, I think, is dead and buried. Like my ancestors, whose graves I visited today. And my grandmother.

And my parents.

Suddenly, I feel weight pressing on my chest—this stupid house!—as I pace down the hall from the kitchen and I see and feel flashes of things I don't understand, trees tumbling and earth shaking and screaming monkeys and my legs won't move anymore and I'm trying to keep my head from going under the surface and I'm rendered immobile in the hallway and I grab onto a wall, no, a door jamb, as I am overcome by dark waves of fear and powerlessness. And absolute and utter grief.

I hear a ghostly gasp and whip my head up to find I'm in the doorway of the living room and I see, I truly _see_ a ghostly specter right there in the dim light coming through the windows and all I can do is watch it wavering in front of me, deep in the long living room. The ghost reaches its arm out…Beckoning? This house…I knew it—I knew it!

And then a light flips on.

I blink rapidly before finally realizing it's not a ghost. Leif is shirtless, his skin glowing, in just his jeans, and has one arm stretched out to the switch of the floor lamp and his other hand is holding a glass of some amber liquid. We just stare at each other. His eyes are wide, his mouth is open and he looks stricken.

"You" he says after an eternity, putting his glass down on a table without breaking eye contact and I'm not sure if it's a question or a statement, but my legs unlock and I run to him, wrapping my entire self around him and my silent tears are running down his neck as he holds tight to me and I feel so safe and warm and right and I inhale his strength and aliveness.

I whisper into his neck in a veritable torrent, "My parents were killed in some kind of car crash caused by a landslide in Costa Rica when I was seven, no one really knows how, and I was in the car, too, but I don't remember it except to get terrifying flashes sometimes and I miss them so much and that's whose voices were on that recording and that's why…that's why…"

"Shhh…It's okay, baby. I've got you. I've got you." He backs up to the sofa and sits down with me in his lap, encasing me in his strong arms. "I've got you now. Shhh…" That's the last thing I remember.


End file.
